


November Notes & Nothings

by lettalady



Series: Month Prompt Challenges [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, Knives Out (2019), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Explicit rating for certain chapters, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-30 01:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 24,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: Another attempt at a month long challenge, though I started this one a bit late so it's not certain that we will get enough prompts to fill the entire month this time. I'll do my best.Be on the lookout for new things, as well as the return of characters from: Unsettled, Close Quarters, as well as some of the pairings we saw featured during the last month prompt challenge.Explicit rating for certain chapters [chapter index in notes]
Relationships: Chris Evans & Original Character(s), Ransom Drysdale & Original Female Character(s), Ransom Drysdale & You, Ransom Drysdale/ Original Female Character(s), Ransom Drysdale/ You, Tom Hiddleston & Original Character(s), Tom Hiddleston & Original Child Character(s), Tom Hiddleston & Original Female Character(s), Tom Hiddleston & Reader, Tom Hiddleston & You, Tom Hiddleston/Original Character(s), Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s), Tom Hiddleston/Reader, Tom Hiddleston/You
Series: Month Prompt Challenges [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544191
Comments: 39
Kudos: 38





	1. racket

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Racket - Close Quarters (Tom Hiddleston)  
2\. Dangerous - bodyguard!Tom Hiddleston  
3\. Question - (unspecified)  
4\. Crumb - detective!Tom Hiddleston & the paramedic  
5\. Favorite - actor!Tom Hiddleston  
6\. Blink - Unsettled (Tom Hiddleston)  
7\. Weather - actor!Tom Hiddleston  
8\. Barber - Unsettled (Tom Hiddleston)  
9\. Camaraderie - Tom and Bobby Hiddleston  
10\. Safe - John Wick & Фанто́м  
11\. Enough - actor!Tom Hiddleston  
12\. Promise - Coffee & Contemplation (Tom Hiddleston)  
13\. Heart - YOJA (Tom Hiddleston)  
14\. Buzz - TJOURN prequel series (Tom Hiddleston)   
15\. Focus - actor!Tom Hiddleston  
16\. Temper - Unsettled (Tom Hiddleston)  
17\. Leather - Loki WISH series  
18\. Kiss - Tom & Bobby Hiddleston  
19\. Voyeur - (unspecified)  
20\. Enticement - Of Sand & Stone (Jonathan Pine from The Night Manager & Chris Evans as Riley St. James)   
21\. Blindsided - bodyguard!Tom Hiddleston  
22\. Alarm - bodyguard!Tom Hiddleston  
23\. Steady - (unspecified)   
24\. Ransom - A Turn of the Knife (Ransom Drysdale)  
25\. Boston - The Wedding Checklist (Chris Evans)  
26\. Sweater - A Turn of the Knife (Ransom Drysdale)   
27\. Murder - A Turn of the Knife (Ransom Drysdale)  
28\. Stubborn - A Turn of the Knife (Ransom Drysdale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prequel of sorts to Close Quarters

** **

**Y**ou jolt awake, heart hammering as you blink blearily in the darkness of your bedroom. Then you realize _why_ and let out a not-entirely-quiet groan as you roll to look at the clock to find out what ungodly hour it is this time.

2:37 am

2:37 in the damned morning is no time to be shoved out of dreamland and forced to listen to _his _crooked crooning. It’s halfway tempting to get up and attempt to be just as loud, just as boisterous – if such a thing is even possible – that or pummel one of the connecting walls with your fists like a frustrated five-year-old.

Tantrums will get you nowhere. Neither will quiet requests, or even noise complaints to building management when dealing with the source itself proves ineffective.

It’s because they all love him.

_Sunshine_.

Another hard thump makes you jump, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you exhale an unhappy sigh. At least you hadn’t heard his arrival to the floor. You’d gotten the precious few minutes it took for him to disembark the elevator and meander to his door, right? Can you take any solace in that?

The lurching laughter reaching through the walls suggests the answer is a definitive: **NO**.

You roll onto your side and shift, squeezing your pillow this way and that around your head until you’re able to fold it into position, in place over your exposed ear. Doesn’t really help to block out his voice, but maybe if you pretend it’s the low drone of the tv on in another room? Unquiet murmurings on the radio, meant as white noise to help you fall asleep?

Yea. No. Damn him.

If only your bosses would take ‘sleep deprivation due to wild work schedules of one’s neighbors’ as a reasonable excuse for schedule accommodations. They’ve only begrudgingly accepted it as a reason for your irritableness, and even that comes with warnings that you’re an encounter away from being reprimanded.

Even that looming threat doesn’t diminish the best thing about your job: the fact that being at work means 8 ½ hours of absolutely no possible chance of Sunshine.

Miracle of small miracles the coast is clear upon your return to the complex. There’s no need to rush through the hallways or take convoluted paths to get to the safety of your apartment. He’s clearly out. No tell-tale signs of typically reclusive neighbors milling about the public spaces in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him. Still. Still after so many months of him in residence.

There’s time for a little indulgence. A coffee care of the carafe in the lounge and a cookie, or two, or three. Don’t you in your sleep deprived condition deserve a little reward? Crunching on a cookie and focusing on the warmth loosening up the ball of stress that is your insides, you aim yourself for the mail room to see if your box holds anything other than the typical bills and junk.

Just junk, which you deposit in the bin at the door leading out into the lobby. You pause to sip a little more of the liquid from your cardboard cup, contemplating a top up before finding your way up to your place, but then blink at the scene before you.

You’d lingered. Tempted fate. Sunshine occupies the lobby. The irritable portion of your brain offers a conspiracy theory: he’s somehow working his schedule to inconvenience you no matter the hour. You frown over the rim of your cup, not quite tipping it up enough to continue sipping your coffee as you watch him hamming it up for the pleasure of seeing how the inhabitants of the complex all coo over him in return. He’s putting on a show, holding court, and clearly relishing every bit of the attention the amassed group is willing to lavish on him. Everyone but you.

It’s been like this since the first time he set foot in the building. His ‘tour’ of the place was met with such _fanfare_. His presence had rippled through the building’s grapevine and throughout the rest of the complex, proving the gossip chain was well and thriving. Everyone’d stopped what they were doing, having something they suddenly desperately needed from the lobby… all for the bragging rights to say they’d seen him, talked to him, just in case the place hadn’t been quite what he’d been looking for.

Rolling your eyes, you start the process of skirting the outside of the room, praying that he’ll do you a favor for once and hold the attention of the growing crowd. With any luck you just might make it to the far side of the lobby where the elevators and stairwell access are without being snared by someone and forced to observe for the sake of niceties.

You, more than anyone else in the building as a result of being the last of the residents that had lived on the floor before his arrival, have far more exposure to him than you care to. Unbeckoned, his off key (and thankfully muffled) early morning snippets of song rattle around in your brain just as you’re passing the densest part of the group. You shudder as the memory of this morning’s rude awakening ripples through you.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Alright there?”

Giving your head a minute shake, you close your eyes for a fraction of a second and inhale a short breath. Blinking, you pucker your lips before you turn, locking eyes with him. The fact that he noticed is annoying enough. The fact that he then _questioned _what he witnessed – the attention of the group is now on you, gazes curious.

“Peachy,” you nod. “Just finally dislodged that earworm from this morning.”

His eyebrows shift up a fraction even as he seems to fight to keep from reacting to your curt response. He doesn’t have to believe you, and you don’t wait for a reply. If he cares to explain to the rest of them, he’s more than welcome.


	2. dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another glimpse of bodyguard!Tom

“**W**elcome back, Mr. Stoic.”

He blinks at the greeting, wondering if he trusts himself to make eye contact as they make their way from the building to the car, or if he should keep to the Safe Zone just over her left ear (if he risks glancing aside at her at all).

The next question comes as they approach the vehicle: “Have a good little holiday?”

She’s persistent today. Fooling himself, which he’ll do later when he doesn’t need to focus so keenly on their surroundings, he could cast her comments as conveyed affection – that she missed him. For now, he’ll focus on getting her to follow her schedule for the day to the best of his ability, his determination hitting a stumbling block when he catches her reflection in the tinted windows of the SUV. She’s studying his profile, nearly frowning. Without registering the urge so much as one can register the speed at which a hummingbird flaps its wings, he realizes he’s got to offer her an answer – “Pleasant few days. Yes.”

It’s just polite conversation. Easy exchanges between two individuals that spend quite a bit of time together. Cordial, but distanced, even if it flirts dangerously with a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

Oh how he wants to cross it.

How tempted had he been during that week long conference? Sol had been next to useless, banished to another suite for the severity of the cold that had him stuck in bed until the day of their return home. The usual distance maintained had slowly diminished through the week out of necessity. And then - 

He’ll never be able to wear a bow-tie again without remembering the way she’d pressed into his space suddenly, tipping her head slightly to the side as she sucked at her bottom lip, just enough to catch it lightly between her teeth. How he’d frozen under her hands as she’d adjusted the piece of cloth at his neck before letting her fingertips drift down to tug gently at his collar, then the outer edges of his jacket.

She’d simultaneously arranged and undone him, all at once. 


	3. question

“I can’t live like this.”

Your heart clenches and then skips several beats. The pair of you were simply sitting together out in the garden. There had been no arguments. No flares of temper. No words, unkind, sharp, or otherwise, for at least the past hour!

“Wh-at?” It’s a struggle to voice the question, not that it’s really the right question, nor one you want the answer to. You’d heard him, loud and clear. It was the only thing you could think to say in response, though.

Finally. Finally, he’s had enough, had his fill of putting up with you.

You gather your courage up and risk a glance in his direction

to find

He’s no longer sat back in the wicker chair that matches yours, a bargain find on a happy weekend early in the relationship. Happy days you’ve yearned for while brooding, arguing, debating the time he spends away.

No – he’s up and out of it.

And down on one knee.


	4. crumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The return of the detective & the paramedic (who will eventually get their own story if I can figure out a title).

**T**he third Friday of the month typically leaves him with a few more gray hairs than he had before, and the joints of his hands tend to ache for about an hour after getting out of the car. Normally people don’t take pride in being bat-shit-crazy drivers, but David seems determined to take home the Worst Driver in the Department award every year. Apparently, people can be competitive about anything.

This time in addition to the old man jokes, pointing out more gray hairs as a result of the time in the car, Tom also hears the announcement: “Hey, she brought food again! Left it in the breakroom!”

The who in question isn’t a question. He knows exactly who they’re all referring to: his paramedic. Tom immediately diverts, rerouting towards the breakroom. Food is a very welcome thing after a harrowing experience in the car. Comfort foods, specifically.

She should be home now, sleeping, since she got off shift a good three hours previous.

As he and David reroute towards the breakroom, curious as to what she’s brought this time, David chuckles, “Ok. If you don’t marry her, I will.”

“Marry her?” Tom asks, dodging a chair. He cuts his eyes at his partner, ignoring Scott’s goofy antics from across the room, “Wouldn’t Cherrie have something to say about that?”

“Eh,” David shrugs, “she prob—”

A pen sails past the pair of them, drawing them both up short. The source, Scott, doesn’t seem to mind the critical stares he receives, just clears his throat, “You don’t want to go to the breakroom.”

After the announcement of food, both Tom and David laugh at the suggestion. David snorts, “Uh. We don’t?”

Scott shakes his head, grin growing, “Nah. Well, Tom definitely wants to go to the racks instead.” 

Tom blinks, “I think I do want food?”

“No, you _really _want to go look in the racks.”

David elbows Tom in the ribs, seemingly exasperated by the rookie’s insistence and resuming his path towards the breakroom. “Just listen to him, Tom. I’ll maybe save you a crumb. No rush.”

It’s only once he’s in the room, standing in the middle of the bunk beds that he realizes that Scott was right. He did want to be in the racks, rather than in the breakroom – she’s there, sleeping, tucked up in one of his old sweatshirts from his locker.


	5. favorite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically pick your pairing & daydream away! I'd assigned a pairing and then decided that it could fit more than one of them.

**N**othing short of miraculous, both of you are ready to go a good twenty minutes earlier than you need to leave to be on time. It wasn’t even that a trick was attempted, messing with the clocks or claiming that the pair of you needed to be there far earlier than you actually did. It meant you had plenty of time, even after twisting this way and that to analyze your outfit in the mirror, to turn your attention to other things. Like what he was wearing.

“Tom. Really.”

He straightens his spine slightly at your tone, but otherwise hardly reacts, “Mm, love? Yes?”

You wait till he turns his head to allow you to see the way he’s cocked his eyebrow. Oh, that dancing eyebrow and those sparkling eyes. Has he already guessed what you’re going to say? “Why do you ever wear that shirt?”

“What?” He glances down at the button down, tucked neatly into his pants and mostly hidden beneath his blazer. He usually opts for white or blue, but this time he’s plucked the grey one out of the closet. When he looks up he’s got a broad smile splashed onto his face, “It _happens _to be my favorite.”

Favorite? Isn’t that the blue one? Or – no. Maybe that’s _your _favorite, and he just humors you. “Why on –” You shake your head as you draw close enough to run your fingers over the fabric. It’s lightweight and wonderful to touch, so you don’t fault him that. Dark enough to be stain resistant, too, but that’s not something he would factor in when picking a favorite piece of apparel…. Why, then, is this one better than the rest? You adopt a light frown, “This is your favorite one? It – it wrinkles if you even _look _at it wrong!”

“Because it does, just that. Because it is.” He shifts how he’s standing, adopting that oh-so-familiar expression he wears when he’s looking at you. Delighted and amused and smitten-through-and-through. “Because you fuss.”

You roll your eyes at him, unable to keep from laughing, or leaning further into him and making the shirt wrinkle all the more, “Ha. Oh.”

“Mmm?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Tom nods, “Yea. Well. I’m _your _idiot.”


	6. blink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst monster got out to herald the return of our Unsettled family?

**Y**ou’re awake. You lay there listening to the intermittent sounds of the house and those within it. There is no tell-tale bumpings of Munchkin, urging you to get up and check on what he could possibly be doing in the middle of the night, and you weren’t jolted awake in an attempt to outrun your dreams. 

And Tom? He’s breathing steadily in the bed beside you. Wandering hands weren’t the culprit, the teasing touch to tempt you out of your dream-world, followed by the soft brush of lips meant to convince you into an urgent early morning lovemaking. 

So then why - _why _\- why are you watching the room gradually lighten?

Restless, you squirm your way out from under the covers, snagging something out of the nearby pile of clothes needing to be put away before wandering out of the bedroom and down the hall. Just a quick peek in on Max in case it was a night terror - a quiet cry that he’d been trying to muffle, but your super-mom hearing had detected… 

But it isn’t. Just like his father he’s buried beneath the covers, sprawled out on his stomach and ‘breathing deeply’. Also just like his father, his curls are a wild, golden mess to tame in a few hours’ time, if he so chooses (or allows). 

Both your boys are asleep, and yet you wander, worrying at the inside of your bottom lip as you move from room to room. 

Coffee or tea might help further prepare you for the day? But you’re not ready for that, yet, not ready for being another year older in two days’ time, _or_ turning on that incredibly bright light that sits over the sink. 

Maybe if you snuggle down on the sofa, pluck a book from a shelf to distract yourself? Or failing that, maybe one of the devices currently resting in the office? No. Nothing seems to suit your listless mood. 

At a loss you circle back, returning to the room where you started. It’s where you want to be, right? With Tom, the man none the wiser to your early-morning meandering? You frown, studying his sleeping form. Rather than how you’d had it tucked nearly up under your chin, he’s got it settled roughly at his waist, seemingly impervious to the chill of the air. 

He’s your own personal heater, or would be if you’d remained in bed with him. You sigh, watching the movements of his body, each deep inhalation and exhalation of breath, wondering what had driven you to prowl the house rather than curling closer to him. You’re halfway tempted, even now, to veer off towards the bathroom, aiming for a soothing shower but the certainty that it would rouse him stops you. He’d wake up and insist on joining you, which is perhaps _exactly _why you didn’t opt for coffee or tea. 

Certainty. Or rather, _un_certainty. The thing that had stirred you awake wasn’t a noise from the house or any of its inhabitants, but one from within you. You’re going to be another year older in the blink of an eye and it’s almostlike you’re right back where you were with Tom before one Maximilian James was in the picture. 

Wrapping the loose clothing a little tighter around you, you fight back against the thought. Being blindsided once was more than enough. You and Tom have made great strides since everything went sideways. He’s fought his way back into your life. You’ve both fought so hard, for the relationship - and sometimes against it, too. This time around? You refuse to allow history to repeat. 


	7. weather

“**T**hey’re here!”

The shout is a call to action, a sign that the operation is a go. There’s a flurry of movement as everyone abandons their seats to sprint to their assigned stations. One at the door, a smiling face to beckon them in, due to help seal off the entrance once they’re admitted. One behind the door leading to the living room, blocking that route of escape. One similarly stationed at the kitchen door, blocking that route of escape. Then there’s you, poised at the remaining exit from the foyer, waiting for the trap to be sprung.

Such lengths shouldn’t be necessary, but for such an easygoing man he makes things ever-so-complicated. If he’d just take that bloody jacket _off_ occasionally. Rather, take it off when someone could conveniently get ahold of it. Every last one of you has tried, at one point in time or another, to get their hands on it. Emma was foiled by a dip in the weather during her visit. Sarah pointed out that he’d not even brought it with him when he’d visited her. Diana nearly had it in her possession, once, but Tom had caught her and thought it was an insistence that they go for a walk with the pup.

“I’ll get the lead from him and — oh he’d better not let – mum your flower bed is getting an extra sprinkle today!”

You bow your head as you suppress giggles, nearly thunking your head on the closed partition and noting Diana’s snort of displeasure. Tom will_ definitely_ hear about thatonce this particular mission has been carried out.

Operation de-pill the jacket.


	8. barber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the angst, a bit of fluff from the Unsettled family.

**I**n the quiet of his dressing room Tom easily identifies the muffled tones of his phone alerting him of a video call. It takes him a second, digging beneath layers of discarded outerwear to snag the device and then answer. She’s calling. Of course he’s going to answer.

“Hey, babe? Everything ok?” The expression she’s wearing he knows the answer before she gives it, but it’s the greeting that springs from his mouth all the same.

“Your son,” she pauses, her attention drifting away from the screen, presumably over at their offspring. “Is in trouble.”

Before he gets the chance to respond to her, to ask what’s happened, or do much more than tip his eyebrows up further, the image on the screen undergoes a wild change. It’s a handoff. Whatever’s happened, she expects their son to break the news to his father. The lower portion of Max’s face comes into view, his attention turned to watch his mother leave the kitchen.

“Max? Mate?” Tom clears his throat, trying to get his son to steady out the device and pull his attention back around, curiosity gnawing at him.

Max jerks a little, carefully turning his head and giving the device, thereby Tom, a side-eyed stare, “Daaaad. Momma is upset with me….”

It draws a chuckle from within him. Yes. Yes he can see that. Partially. He’s still got this odd framing of the kitchen, and only a portion of his son depicted on screen. In the background he notes movement, though Max doesn’t seem to realize that his mother has drawn close in the hallway to be able to overhear their discussion.

What’s happened? And was that a quiet giggle over his son’s hemming and hawing?

Patiently, Tom adopts a benign expression, drawing out the next word from his mouth, “…why…”

It’s only then that Max slowly starts to shift the phone so that the video better frames his face. By the time the video quality settles, Max clearly steadying his elbow on the table, Tom knows _exactly _why Max is in trouble.

Typical golden curls frame the right side of Max’s face. The left? Tom attempts to suppress the laughter that tries to bubble up within him, understanding now why Max’s mother had to hand off the phone and leave the room. Maximilian James has taken it upon himself to update his look, cutting huge chunks of hair from the left side of his head, nape of the neck to crown.

“I’ll, um, hmmm.” He’s fighting a losing battle with keeping his mirth contained. He gives himself a shake and nods once at his son, “I see.” Swallowing hard against a determined chuckle he starts again, running his hand through his own hair, “Let your mum know I’ll give Louis a call. Guess it’s time we both visit the barbershop.” 


	9. camaraderie

**E**verything aches, though the most he’s managed has been a slow shamble to give himself a once-over in the mirror, decide that he did indeed look like death warmed over, and then proceed to vomit in the vague direction of the porcelain throne. That mess will be a problem for future-Tom. Now-Tom can’t be bothered to focus on anything but the overwhelming urge to crawl back into bed and bemoan the state of existing.

He knows he won’t be alone for long if he dares give in to the urge. A cold nose will burrow beneath the layers of down to press into his arm, leg, or someplace else equally as exposed. The simple fact that he can hear a steady – _thump whump thump_ – as background accompaniment to his retching helps to boost his spirits. 

It’s solidarity, though his pup can’t do much to battle against this hellacious virus. 


	10. safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit from a cast of characters that refuse to cooperate. Something involving John Wick, a thief he comes to call Фанто́м, and those she used to serve out for her head.

**T**he safest place you can be when the world wants you dead is underground. Not literally underground, as that’s the point – to keep living – but if they think you’re dead and buried, well, nobody will come looking. Getting away clean is key, not leaving a trail to be followed. Even the best in the business can make mistakes, and people can be bought – no matter how much you’ve paid for their silence.

The_ second_ safest place to be is somewhere those baying for your head fear to follow.

Why else would one dare to step into the Boogeyman’s shadow?

Those brazen enough to step into his path, the Baba Yaga himself, tended to end up in the trail of bodies he left in his wake. Even retired from the game, the legend of his talents kept a buffer in place between him and the rest of the criminal underbelly. Nobody wanted to risk drawing the ire of the hitman, active or not.

If the only plan left is to step into the harbinger’s shadow, the best thing you can be is a ghost.


	11. enough

“**Y**ou’re good at that.” You’re far too intoxicated to continue keeping an eye on him out of the corner of your eye. Even leaning on the bar as you spin on the stool makes you a little unsteady. The fault, of course, isn’t with the liquid you keep pouring down your throat, but the wobbly-and-in-need-of-repair stool. “Good. Very too good at that.” 

You_ tsk _at yourself, at _him_, and scrunch up your face as you look at him - sitting there in his dapper suit. Golden man pausing swallowing the golden liquid from his glass to cast a - a _look_ in your direction. He’d just finished saying goodbye to somebody, several somebodies, he might’ve known a year, two, five, years ago? You’d lost track while they were talking. He - he’d made it sound like he’d seen them just yesterday. 

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t your place to comment. But you’ve seen it so many nights over and it’s just started to grate on you. That’s all. Watching him schmooze, ooze charm and smile, picking his way through making everyone feel like they know him better than they do. 

“At what?”

Like he doesn’t know. Or is this impatience in his tone because you’ve called him out on something he’s very aware of. Smugness pulls your mouth into a half smile, draws a light chuckle out with your reply, “Making people believe they’re more important to you than they really are.”

His expression glazes over for a second before he tips his eyebrows up, lifting his glass but waiting to return fire before swallowing the last of his drink, “Well. Someone’s had enough.” 

Of watching him fake his way through every interaction, nearly every interaction. Yes. Of - he slips off the stool and digs in his back pocket for his wallet, bringing your triumphant internal little dance to a standstill. Catching the bartender’s eye he motions to your drink, as well as the empty glass that sits before his now vacant seat. 

You exhale, not quite sure what to do about this development. He usually doesn’t leave until the evening has progressed a little further on. “What? Truth hard to stomach?”

“No. Just choosing not to attend this argument.”


	12. promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ A segment from a WIP called Coffee & Contemplation ]

**T**he rules were simple, simple and necessary. Neither of us wanted anything defined for reasons entirely our own and never fully shared with the other party. 

It all came about _because _of a party, a lock in, and a refusal to abandon the festivities. Home? Those beds were too far away and there were still people to entertain, the company of friends to enjoy. Beds, well. The couples got the rooms. The rest of us crashed in various places around the house. A few claimed available floorspace in the office. Someone even slept in the tub. I’ve never understood that. You can’t reasonably get comfortable when _bathing_ in a tub, and you expect to be able to sleep? 

Point being, Tom and I ended up in the living room. He opted for the floor, with a few cushions to spare, while I took the sofa. Which worked for our drunk selves until we realized that we weren’t tired, and someone, in one of the beds somewhere, was having a very good end to their night. The thumping brought about giggles that led to hiccoughs that only subsided with a dash to the kitchen where I swear he stuck his head under the sink rather than bother with a glass.

Men.

By the time that was sorted the activity from the rest of the house had died down a little. They were trying to be quiet, even though there wasn’t any mistaking the vocal noises. Either the rest of the house was asleep or were inebriated that they didn’t care to get up to investigate. Hookups amongst the group tended to happen. Friendships grew into something more. Plus it’s rude to interrupt when you certainly wouldn’t want someone walking in on you.

Too many whiskey sours were what brought the question out of me. “Are you _really_ going to sleep down there?” The sofa was big enough to fit two. He was just trying to respect personal space, and the friendship that had developed between us. But laying there in the dark listening to two of our friends pleasure one another tends to take your not-quite-pickled brain and squeeze until ill-thought-out things are said.

Like inviting him up from his place on the floor to squeeze in next to me on the sofa. The thing about adult bodies and small spaces, like the seat of a cushion, is that there are only so many ways to make two people fit. And only so many places for hands to go.

His quiet laughter vibrated the very structure we were trying to sort ourselves out on, and his laughter was contagious. In the dark, we fumbled and tried to settle, which only met with quiet murmurs of:

“Sorry.”

“Sorry. Ha. Oh. Um.”

“Ah. I – ok wait, how about…”

“Yea, that’s not… oh.”

“Um…”

I had stretched to try to figure out if I could rest my hand somewhere down by our sides and instead ran my hand down his penis. His um in response was broken off when I gave up entirely, bidden on by a marching drum in my head. “Oh, sod it.”

It was all the encouragement he needed to free his hands from whatever restrictions he had placed on them. The quick brushes to my hips from earlier were nothing to the exploration now allowed. We were both half-clothed, giggling and breathing heavily in each other’s arms when he found a way to add a comment again. “You, you taste like whiskey sours.”

“You don’t have to kiss me.”

He’d only seen fit to shush me, the last of his hesitation spared to ask if I preferred the floor. That uncomfortable surface at my back and further delay? He didn’t need much convincing to shove all concerns and continue with what we had started.

It should have been a one off. A shorter one off, for reasons of location and intoxication. Except every time after that the knowledge that we had fucked on a friend’s couch hung between us. The feeling of his lips on my skin. The feeling of him that lasted for days. It became an itch, something I couldn’t help to want to scratch.

The second time, a few months later and after more than a few awkward chats, both of us ended up coming to the same conclusion. It was going to become A Thing between us. _Had_ to become a thing between us… half to prove to ourselves that it wasn’t a fluke, half to prove it to each other.

“It was fun, but a one off, y’know? Well… maybe not a _one_ off but…” 

“I’m not looking for a date. Or anything serious.”

“Good. Yea. Me neither.” 

“I just. I think we can do better.”

“Hmm.”

“If we’re not worried about falling off the sofa.” 

“Which we didn’t.”

“And not drunk.”

“Oh you were so drunk.”

“Speak for yourself, whiskey queen. I’m just saying. I have a king sized bed we can work with.”

“Be still my heart.”

“C’mon. I want to find out what you taste like tonight.”

Each invitation always ended the same way: a promise that set a new boundary. Eventually we’d run ourselves into the very box we wanted to avoid, and when that day happened we vowed we would hold firm and end things. Phrasing was important. My last promise had ruled out phone sex because I’d been careless. He’d accidentally forbade take away. 


	13. heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the world of YOJA

**L**oosely contained by formal wear, rumpled and well worn for the extended evening, he doesn’t quite seem real to you…. except you _know_ that he’s actually laying there atop the hotel bed duvet with you. This isn’t some make-believe moment in your head, even if just yesterday you’d been so very sure that he’d never have anything further to do with you. 

The plan had been to make an appearance at the event, walk the carpet and smile and pretend that everything in your life was just the way it should be. What did you have to complain about, after all? Just a derailed relationship. Just a broken heart. 

Tom inhales, reaching out to brush his fingertips along your upper arm, “Where’d you go, just now?” 

Into your head to a place far far away from this moment in the hotel room in the wee hours of the morning.

First trying to bite back the soft smile, you eventually give in and let the smile fully emerge as you flit your attention over his face. “Nowhere,” you answer, “I’m right here.” 

His eyebrows knit together for a split second before he laughs, tipping his body closer to test that answer, his mouth quickly occupied with rediscovering yours. 

It’s been like this since the diner. Careful quiet conversation punctuated by the intense need for physical contact. In transit, even in the elevator and short walk down the hallway to the door of the room, it had been fleeting innocent contact, both seemingly cautious of one another. Once in the room, though… 

Had it been you that started unbuttoning his shirt, or him? You can’t quite remember. He’d been the one to draw up short, of that you’re sure, pulling himself away to pick up the conversation where it had left off. 

This time he only pauses for breath, his body tucked close, but you catch the hesitance in his eyes all the same. You reach to try to wipe some of the transferred lipstick from the edge of this mouth, quietly offering another apology. 

“Please stop apologizing,” he murmurs, trapping your hand beneath his and pulling it to his mouth to dot a light kiss to your fingers. The frown that had been edging onto his face deepens, knotting up his forehead, “I never should have taken you there. Left you there.” 

Ignoring his request, you drift your fingers away from his mouth to his cheekbone, his jawline. There isn’t even a ghost of a bruise left to betray what had happened on the front lawn of your mother’s house. You smile at him as he tilts his head into your palm, “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you sooner. Tell you sooner, what they were like.” 

His free hand moves along your side, searching for a zipper or just tracing down to your hip because he can. For a moment he closes his eyes, remains there just breathing, before fluttering those blue eyes open again to find yours. “I had this - this plan in my head. Of what would happen. How I wanted things…” 

His focus drifts down to your lips and you think for a moment that he’s going to abandon whatever he’s trying to tell you, tip forward and kiss you again, but he doesn’t. His hand drops further down to flatten against the material at your hips and lower, pressing smooth the layers of shimmering tulle. 

_I’m sorry, Tom_. The words are there, ready to be spoken, but you hold them in place for now. 

His features lift, still a frown but not fully. “How much longer are you in Spain? In…” 

“Madrid?” You offer up the city he’s mentally searching for and get a nod in return. “Um…” 

Rather than waiting for your answer Tom muddles on, “Could I visit? Before you come back here, I mean. Home to L.A.” 

Should you tell him you hardly consider it home anymore? That it hasn’t felt like home since he left, after staying with you that short while? That you’ve been thinking of making another big change, that you’re toying with leaving the screen for the stage again, or going right back to living out of suitcases like you had before? 

“I’d like that,” you shift a little, seeking out a slightly different position in his arms. “I’d like that very much.” The tension leaves his face as you answer, lifting your head just enough to indicate that you want his lips back on yours again. The smile you’re graced with in return wrinkles the corners of his eyes, lighting up his face as he leans in to obey your wordless request.


	14. buzz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the prequel series associated with TJOURN

**B**erlinale is the reason that you’re at the Cannes today. The Berlinale Film Festival, which you’d worked simply because you’d been before, had connections, knew the area. Though one of Tom’s films was in the lineup, he was supposed to be elsewhere, working like the ever-busy man that he is — _supposed to be_ being the key portion of that phrase.

The whispers of his name that had rippled periodically through the crowd of journalists surrounding you did nothing to help the weird pull of gravity on your heart in the direction, you presumed, he might be located while filming. Missing him despite the lengthy phone call exchanged not two days before hardly made sense, but you did. Distractions while working only make the job more difficult. Determined to ignore the yearning to pull out your phone and text him, you pushed to the front of the group as another set of cars approached the drop off point, presumably ferrying the next set of celebrities to the event.

Balanced against – or pushed into, depending on your way of looking at it – the barricade diving celebrities from the media, you tried to focus on hearing yourself think over the buzz created by the journalists and photographers. The other part of your two-man team, the photographer also assigned to the event by your boss, stands guarding your right side, his bag containing the odd camera paraphernalia that wasn’t in use wedged between the pair of you.

As is the norm for every time someone appeared from within one of the darkened vehicles, the sea of media shudders with anticipation, the noise level increasing. Impossibly, as though summoned by the yearning radiating from your core, Tom had jettisoned out of a car, pocketing his mobile and looking dashing as ever.

It was easy, then, to ignore the vibration emanating from your jacket pocket. Tom! He was supposed to be halfway across the world! _Not_ here smiling for the sea of cameras. Certainly not pausing as his attention passed through the journalists he was facing. _Definitely_ not allowing his smile to grow as he locked eyes with you and stuttered into a quick two-step, beelining towards you and ignoring the rest.

Best to avoid such incidents in the future.

His argument, made by candlelight as the last few bites of a magnificent meal were polished off, had seemed sound at the time. It was already confirmed that you were going to be part of the team covering the Festival de Cannes. Rather than a last minute booking on his part, as had happened in Berlin, he was already planning to attend the Cannes as well. It followed, then, that if _he_ was going to be there, and _you_ were going to be there… Well…

Well, indeed.


	15. focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to 30 Second Secret or something new entirely

**H**e’s back, back and hovering even though he knows it drives you crazy. Quiet companionship is one thing, pacing and then looping around to peer over your shoulder at the screens before you is another. 

The first time he’d been in your office it was mostly questions about the process, peppered lightly with observations and requests. Why did you use a dual monitor setup? Didn’t you miss sunlight, tucked away in a room without windows like you were? Why didn’t you sit in a more comfortable chair, perhaps something that swiveled like those that he figured were standard to most offices? 

When he notices that your drink has gone cold he disappears, and you consider shutting and locking the door. Knowledge that he means well keeps you from following through. There’s nothing wrong with pursuing one’s curiosity. Nothing at all. And once he settles down, or is summoned elsewhere, you’ll be free to get back to work without further distraction. 

He is a distraction, but a welcome one as he also serves as inspiration. When he does have the time, actually does manage to quiet himself enough to recline on the stuffed chair in your office, he proves to be a great resource. You’ve bounced ideas off him more than once. 

Lost in thought, fingers hovering lightly on the keys of the keyboard, you give a slight start when his reflection appears in the doorway. He’s returned to you, a steaming mug in each hand. Evidently he’s planning to stay awhile. Perhaps to check your progress. Perhaps just to sprawl out in the chair and watch you work. 

Though he uses the same equipment you do, the tea he brings you always tastes better. Rather than routing towards the chair after handing off the mug, he hovers. Another one of _those_ days. Great. 

He settles at the edge of your desk, not quite leaning on it but not fully standing either. A quick check nets you an answer you’ve barely started forming: he’s studying the bookshelves opposite. Perhaps trying to figure out which book to pluck from the shelf? It’s a wide selection from which to choose - your own series from which this latest project is being adapted, reference books, and so very many of those that you simply enjoy having close at hand. 

“You’d tell me,” he mutters, only slightly inclining his head to catch your eye. It’s almost like he’s afraid to fully face you, “if I was annoying you, right?” 

You have a few times before. It makes you frown lightly at him, turning further away from the job at hand. Once he got to know you he came to be able to easily pick up on your nonverbal cues well before you had to throw him out or shoo him away. Anyway, your annoyance those days usually stemmed from whatever else was going on in your life. The fault never purely resided with him.

He still keeps his body angled opposite, facing the room rather than you. “It’s ok that I come in here?” 

“Yes.” 

He nods, absorbing your answer and looking forward at the wall of books again before twisting to half-turn his body and tip forward so he can look at the screens before you, at the progress for the day. He’s always curious to know what comes next. If there will be any departures from the series, any changes. It makes you smile. 

“Well,” he catches your eye and quickly straightens, a forgotten thought clearly reigning him in again. He lifts his mug in your direction, gracing you with one of his warmest smiles as he gets himself into motion, heading for the door once more. 

Maybe he won’t be camping out today, after all. Was that all he wanted? To make sure that you were still ok with his periodic presence? Odd. Maybe someone had told him to leave you alone? 

The question almost airs itself, but then gets stuck in the back of your mouth, a battle taking place between your lips and your brain. You can source out who warned him off without making him dwell on it further. Let the man have his peace. Let his focus wander on. 

He pauses in the doorway, swallowing down the first sip you’ve seen him take of his tea. Surely it’s still to hot for that? Yours is, if the heat you feel on the outside of the mug is any indication. 

Yes. There it is, the surprised blink down at the mug in his hands, and the wince as he licks his lips before looking at you again. “I’ll - uh. See you later. ” His eyes dance from you to your computer screens and back again, “I like the new shampoo, by the way.”


	16. temper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the world of Unsettled   
*for those unfamliar, there's a reason it's all in italics*

_**H**e stares at the emergency call list, dreading the next call he’ll have to make. No choice. He’s got to do it. It’ll only make things worse if he doesn’t. He’s got to call and disrupt her ‘girls long weekend away’. _

_Max’s temperature has slowly increased over the last 24 hours, spiking during their visit at the doctor’s office, where they’d confirmed that it wasn’t just sniffles. Not even as simple as a bad cold. All the firsts he’d fought for, tooth and nail for, and he wins his two year old’s first bought with the flu. _

_Little Man has been a trooper, though… a miserable little trooper, snuggling into Tom’s arms like a hedgehog, trying to get as comfortable as he can while periodically wiping his snotty nose into Tom’s shirt. _

_Max’s GP had warned him to wipe everything down, disinfect all that he can and wash the rest, which he’ll do once he can unwind his son from around his torso. For now he’s more than happy to continue right on letting his shirt be a much needed tissue and do his best to comfort his son. _

_He sets the emergency call list aside, tipping the pair of them to the left just enough that he can scoop up the paperwork for the medicines that Max’s GP had prescribed. Once more through the list, and a mental review of all that had been conveyed before he calls her. Just once more to make sure he’s got it all straight in his head. _

_He’d done it all by the book, done everything right to try to combat a cold. And done the right thing again when he called to schedule a visit as soon as Max’s temperature hit 37.7° celcius. Yes, though it had been higher even than that at the doctor’s office, it wasn’t unheard of for children’s temperatures to soar like that when they were seriously ill. _

_Seriously ill._

_Tom closes his eyes, still rubbing his fingertips in small circles over Little Man’s back as he wearily admits the truth of what will happen when he makes the call. He’ll start to explain things, try to assure her that he’s got it all taken care of… that there’s no need to worry, he can be trusted with this…_

_She’s going to freak out, with accusations not far behind. _

_He sighs, fluttering his eyes open to stare at the device sitting next to Max’s medication. It’ll be worse the longer he waits, but he can’t quite bring himself to lean forward again to pick the device and make the call. She’ll want to know why he didn’t let her know sooner - while still at the doctor’s office, or before. _

_Better to just get it over with. Let her go ahead and decide to end the trip early, head back and scoop their son up. _

_Steeling himself for the inevitable cold shoulder, Tom sits forward on the couch, shifting Max in his arms as Little Man’s body shakes with a series of struggled coughs. At least the heat radiating between them isn’t as intense as it was before. It may be purely in his head, but it feels like the medicine is already hard at work. _

_Max quiets while Tom is still listening to the tones of the connecting call. That’s good. If she answers and hears him coughing the heated words will start before Tom is even able to hazard an explanation. _

_“Hello?”   
_

_It’s not Max’s mother that answers. _

_Tom blinks and pulls his phone away from his ear to check which number he’d dialed. Definitely Max’s mother. Which means she’d seen his name pop up on the screen and handed it off to her best friend rather than answer. _

_Typical. _

_“Hey. Uh.” Tom fights to keep his annoyance hidden, his voice light as he can manage given the circumstances. “Hey, Izz. I need to talk to her.”   
_

_His one-time-friend issues a sigh over the phone he feels mirrored in his bones. Weary. Worn through from the length and intensity of the battles. “Tom…”_

_Max squirms in Tom’s arms, emitting an unhappy noise. It’s all the push Tom needs to momentarily forget playing nice with Isabetta. “I. Don’t. Care that she doesn’t…” He catches himself before he careens over the proverbial cliff, feeling his son burrow a little further into his chest, “Put her on the phone, Izzy. Now.” _


	17. leather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Loki WISH series

**F**rustrated doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

They had how many years _and_ a patient teacher. You’re stuck with a crash course in control from the pair of them, and have just about had it with their endless bickering - and the kids gloves they refuse to remove. The most you can say for either of them is that they don’t let you wallow in a failed attempt at what they’ve taught you for long. 

It’s when Loki repeatedly stops you from following a particular thread, which is the best way you’ve got to describe the feeling of the magic you’re pulling from him, by overloading you, that you snap. It’s not even that it temporarily makes your nerves scream, or that you sometimes stumble. It’s that he gets this _look_ on his face, every time. Like he’s _laughing_. 

“Stop -“ you’re nearly shaking as you jab your pointer and middle fingers into his chest, stabbing at him with those darkened fingertips of yours, “using me. For your. Entertainment!”

Loki tips his head, unblinking in response to your anger, “Careful, my agent.” 

Careful. _Careful!?_ You grind your teeth, remembering all too well what typically happens when he adopts such a manner. It makes you pause, your jaw clamped shut, but only for a fraction of a moment. That self-satisfied smirk ghosting across his lips makes you snarl right back at him in return, “Fuck careful. And fuck this.” 

You barely glance at Thor as you turn, disgusted with the pair of them. They can keep right on bickering. You need air. 

Aiming for the doorway to the room and whatever lay beyond, you continue ranting, mostly because for the life of you you can’t figure out how to stop, “Fuck all of it. I--”

Loki’s leather clad arm stalls your forward progress, snaking around your midsection, causing your upper body to lurch with the sudden block. His other arm slides into place and you feel yourself being hauled off your feet, your attempt to walk away from him forcibly stalled. He takes a few exaggerated steps, rocking the pair of you as he drags you away from the hallway, away from the doorway, away from Thor. Where he’s headed, or if he’s just attempting to corner you again to trap you in preparation for further argument, you hardly care. 

Fuck arguing. Fuck being manipulated. You writhe against him, trying to find purchase again, trying to find your way free of the steel bands wrapped around your waist. 

“Stop.” He snaps, his body jerking in conjunction with the word. 

You don’t listen. You refuse. Enough._ Enough._ If you could just peel yourself away, even for a second. 

Even trying to elbow him in the chest has no effect. “Fuck you!” 

“Fuck me?” He takes another jarring step before setting you down, maintaining one arm firmly around you while quickly using the other snare the arm you’d just used to try to wedge yourself away from him.

No more elbows to the torso for the time being. You’re slightly out of breath for trying to struggle for your freedom. He’s also breathing hard, but you suspect not for the same reasons. Once again he’s enjoying this. He’s playing games, even in the face of your fury. “Let me go, damn you. Let go of me.” 

You feel his body twitch as he shakes his head, though you can’t see the motion. His voice comes again, closer to your ear. “No. I’m trying to help you.”

“Help.” You snort out a hard laugh. Keeping you braced against him like this? “How is _this_ helping?” 

He he adjusts his grip to find your wrist and then dig into your palm. He wants to force you to open your fist? You try start to writhe against him anew, not that it does you any good. He shifts his stance with every motion, reclaiming every bit of space you win, keeping you locked you against him.

“Look. **Look**!” 

You shake your head, refusing his insistence. You know what your fingertips look like now. The blue-black smudges that marred your fingertips are hard to forget. And then there’s the few digits of the hand he’s trying to pry open - the darkness starting to creep down your nail bed. He’ll wind up breaking your fingers if he’s not careful.

“This does not control you.”

“Neither do you.” You fire back.

You feel him shift his jaw against yours before he lifts you off your feet again. He’s headed towards the side of the room. Good. As soon as he draws close enough you can use the wall to your advantage -- kick off it and hopefully throw him off balance enough to gain your freedom again.

Guessing your mind, Loki leans forward to force your feet down, half-dragging-half-turning you backwards to get you close enough to face the wall without having room or time to kick out. _Damn him_. As he continues to wrench your fist open he pulls your arm out, reaching until your knuckles hit the unforgiving surface. 

He means for you to cooperate. Far from gentle, he presses hard on the back of your hand, on your bent digits, trying to get you to splay the evidence of what’s happening to you on the wall beneath his hand. “Stop. Fighting. Me.” 

“No!” 

Your joints ache, protesting to the pressure he’s applying, the way you’re being forced to shift your weight forward onto your hand and into the wall. “Go ahead,” you growl. You don’t want to look at your hand but he’s not leaving you much option. It’s painful enough without watching in fascination as he threatens to crush it. How far will he go? How far will the bones, the joints, allow this to go before yielding, popping, rendering your hand useless? “Do it. Push harder.” 

Taunting him now is stupid, so very stupid, but you can’t help yourself. 

He gives your midsection a squeeze, using his chest to jar your arm, timing it with a jerk of his hand - all of it jarring two of your fingers straight beneath his hand. “Stop it,” he hisses, “or I will.” 

He will? Promises, promises. Yet another threat, another attempted manipulation. Yep, that’s the perfect way to get you to do what he wants. “Then _do it_, asshole.” 

Loki leans against you as he responds, your hand screaming from the additional pressure that results and pulling an unintentional whimper from you, a low snarl almost bitten into your ear, “You _will_ stop calling me that.” 

A white hot pain rockets through your hand, traveling up your arm and momentarily blinding you. **_Bastard! _**He’s done it? You called his bluff one time too many and - you give your head a little sea-sick shake, finally relaxing within his grip. You swallow, blinking the tears away and force yourself to look at the damage of your stubbornness.

Your five fingers are dispersed beneath his - not broken, you realize as a tingling pain brings feeling back to your hand, but each slightly more blue than they were before. The darkness that had once simply dusted your fingertips is now up to the first knuckle on each finger.

He used a shock of raw power to do what he wanted. To get his way. Again.


	18. kiss

based on this image

**T**om returns to the living room, his path towards the sofa crossing the last few rays of sunlight finding their way in through the windows to dance across the floor. He’s already changed from his day wear into his loose and fraying pajama pants - you’ll replace them this Christmas and round file those - and threadbare shirt. 

Is he planning to check how late you’re staying up? Maybe he’s just keen to join you and the pup in quiet companionship for a little while? He’s been out and about all day, busy as always. 

The vibrations of the cushions and frame of the sofa tell you how happy Bobby is to see Tom, even if he stayed at your side rather than latch onto Tom the moment he came in the door. Some days Tom has a little shadow trotting around his feet, some days it’s just perked ears, waiting to hear a summons. 

Tom beams at his pup, “You’re such a good boy!” 

Sweet words make his chocolate spaniel wiggle in delight all the more. 

As soon as he’s close enough he bends, nearly kneeling, to scratch around Bobby’s ears, “Such a sweet, handsome boy. I love you, you know that?” He cups his hands around the pup’s head, framing the chocolate eyes that look upon him with such devotion, “Look at that face.” 

He bends further, giving Bobby a series of loud kisses right at the top of his head before standing up, a huge smile on his face. Heaving out a contented breath, Tom turns, leaving the room without another word.

You blink after staring for a moment at the hallway leading to the rest of the house. He’s gone to bed? Just like that? A quick glance in Bobby’s direction tells you he’s just as mystified, but clearly delighted from the show of affection. Sometimes you swear he’s _this close _to talking, a world of emotion conveyed in those furry brows and sweet auburn eyes. 

“Well,” you laugh, reaching to scratch behind your companion’s ears and getting a happy doggy grin in return, “I think your father’s lost it, Bob…. should I go check on him?” 

The pup tips his eyebrows up and looks towards the hallway before looking back at you again and turning his head to nudge your hand with his snout. It’s as clear a _yes, mom_ as you’re going to get. 

As you get up you lean to dot a light kiss over one of Bobby’s ears, “Alright, then. I’ll be right back.” 

It’s not that it’s unusual for him to dote on his pup. That’s not it at all. It’s just that you were _right there_ and he didn’t even give you a goodnight wave. A light laugh burbles within your chest as you walk down the hallway, seeking Tom out. 

He’s not in the office, with a book or hunched at the computer. He’s not waiting just around the corner, either, catching you in his arms with chuckled delight. Bedroom? Has he really said goodnight only to the pup and gone to bed? 

At first glance the answer is no. The bed is slightly rumpled from where he must’ve been laying on it earlier…. and there’s a book on the comforter, face down, spine cracked towards the ceiling. But where is Tom? 

You pause just inside the bedroom door, uncertain if you need to backtrack or investigate the room further. He couldn’t have just disappeared. Maybe you missed him going towards the kitchen? You lean back, tapping your fingertips on the door frame as you think things through. Where’d he go? 

A used washcloth in hand, Tom emerges from the master bathroom. A light smile already on his lips, it expands when he finds you standing there. 

“Want to explain what that was about?” You flip your hand out towards the doorway beside you, indicating the rest of the house and what just transpired. 

His shoulders jump with a quiet laugh before he turns, quickly tossing the washcloth back into the bathroom. Probably on the floor to be tripped over later, knowing him. He approaches, you think to wrap you in his arms and begin a lengthy explanation for ignoring you, but when he draws within arm’s reach he only pulls you towards him with one arm, leaning to tip the door shut with the other once you’re out of its path. 

“Tom. What?” 

He steps back, colliding with the closed bedroom door and pulling you along with him, wrapping you up in his arms, “C’mon,” he plants a quick kiss, “I had to do _something _to apologize to him for locking him out for a few hours.” 

_Oh._


	19. voyeur

**T**he first time he saw her was a few days after he’d moved in. Still living mostly out of boxes and trying to figure out the feel of the place. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He’d been sitting at the end of his bed, contemplating hauling a bookshelf up the stairs and where – exactly – he wanted to put it in proximity to his bed, and the window.

Movement had drawn his eye. Boy had he gotten an eyeful, even quick as he was to flutter his eyes shut and tuck his chin to pull his focus away. That he then cautiously lifted his gaze once more, arching an eyebrow at his own behavior as he sought out her form again, well – he’d been traveling for so long leading up to this letting of the place.

The next time it happened he felt a thrill of surprise spiking through his system, the warm flush of lust following quickly after. He wanted her. Still had yet to introduce himself, but thoroughly enjoyed imagining how she’d moan under his touch.

The seventeenth time he saw her he’d fallen well under her spell. Her siren song kept him transfixed there in the stuffed chair he’d positioned opposite his bed. Not facing her – no – that would be beyond reproach. Facing the light source for when he was reading. It just so happened to _also_ be one of the several vantage points he had in his room where he could watch her.

There’s no real set timing in the evening, not that he’s been able to gather. Sometimes it was a quick jaunt from the bathroom through her bedroom. Sometimes it was scarcely-there underwear worn while standing before her bureau, hands on her hips while she analyzed, or criticized, or crafted outfits to wear. There were days she carried a mug around and promptly forgot about it for a phone call, or a book, or an errand that stole her away from him.

Today he’d almost let it be an early night, had almost turned for the shower and a fitful night’s sleep with her ghosting through his dreams, but then a glance across the way brought a smile to his lips. The heat of the day hasn’t burned away, and he’s graced with the sound of her laugh through the open window.

Her attention is fixed down in her lap, her upper body and face illuminated from below by the tablet held there. She’s reading or watching something or talking to someone, he yearns to know which, but also feels a spike of jealousy even as his fingers drift towards the buckle of his belt. Her silk kimono is belted loosely, her hair up, letting him know he’s already missed her evening ritual. She’s probably smelling of soap, maybe a hint of the detergent she uses lingering about her too. Swallowing hard, he settles in further, glad he’d not bothered with the overhead light.

The kimono leaves just enough to his imagination, royal blue with pink and green flowers, gaping enough in the right places to have him half hard with all but a glance. His greedy fingers work his belt free of his buckle, quickly moving on to the button and zipper of his pants. The occasional sound of her laugh and this visual are more than enough to work with, he’s created worlds in his head with far less to go on, and if you can’t laugh in the bedroom there’s no need to carry on – even if it _is_ pretend.

His muscles clench and contract as he frees himself from the restrictive material of his pants, a hiss escaping through his teeth as he manipulates his underwear out of the way as well. It’s a little thrilling doing this with her in his head as well as framed before him when he opens his eyes. His fingers know the way, his hands all the company he’s had for longer than he’d like – his hands and the image of her between his legs. You name it, he’s thought of it and played it through in his mind.

In his fantasies she knows just where to touch, where to place those lips, where to lick to set the pace and cause his breath to quicken. The staccato sounds from _his _lips are all that meet his ears, though. Except now, now with the soundtrack of the city behind – and the phantom noise of _her_….

He groans, his hips jerking with the imagined attentions of her lips on his cock. He quickens his pace, fluttering his eyes open for another study of the pink and green flowers gracing her curves. He catches movement, too, the adjustment of her shoulders and tip of her head to better support her comfort. How he wishes he could help in that arena.

At the moment it’s much easier to imagine her shifting and resettling herself down over his lap – tossing her head back to expose more flesh as his hands find her hips and guide her, steady her. Unable to groan her name – he still doesn’t know it – his fantasy can only moan his name, each utterance louder than the last as he daydreams about how it would feel to fuck her.

There – again – another shift of the way she’s reclined on her bed, and a secret smile directed at the screen in her lap that he’d love to have directed at him – or be the reason for. He closes his eyes again, imagining how he’d perform such a feat.

How he might undo that belt and help her to have that slinky material pool down to the floor as they moved together, her mouth falling from that secret smile into a silent – or loud, either worked – O as he thrust his cock deeper within her. How he might discover every area she was even slightly ticklish, not with his fingers but with his lips and tongue. How she’s quake and clench around him, edging him closer and closer to orgasm and he drove her towards hers.

His abdomen tightens at the thought of losing himself to her. It’s not the feeling of his own hands but that of her body pulling him to the precipice, and over. His eyes flash open but he doesn’t see his room, or the window, or her flat beyond as his body jerks, the intensity of it forcing him to call out in satisfaction as he ejaculates, his cock still buried deep within her.

It takes him a few moments to blink himself out of his haze, his muscles not as tight but slightly aching as he adjusts himself, contemplating stepping over to the sink to clean up or simple reaching to claim a discarded dirty towel from the hamper close by. He looks back through the window, wanting one last glimpse of his daydream before the moment is lost.

She’s moved again, her tablet no longer held in her lap. Now she’s seated with one leg propped up, her elbow resting atop her knee and her chin cupped in her hand.

His daydream is staring right back at him. And smiling.

::::

[_Original photo that sent me spiraling below _]


	20. enticement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another segment of the Jonathan Pine fic that will serve as the sequel to The Night Manager: Of Sand & Stone

**T**hey tried just about everything to lure him back. His answer held firm every time.

**_NO_**.

They were right, telling him he was good at it. That scared him all the more. Sliding in and out of identity? Adopting manner, adjusting expression and gait, wearing a second – or third – or fourth – skin instead of your own? And the violence involved – the thrill that rose up within him in correlation to it. No. No, thanks. Better to leave well enough alone. Better to return to the tranquil frozen tundra and anonymity that didn’t betray the innocent trust of strangers.

“_Imagine all the wrongs you could help right_.”

That line had worked once, appealing to his sense of duty. But that tune had been played out. He wasn’t interested. They’d have to find someone else. How many ways could he say it?

**_NO_**.

“_You’re good at this_.”

Sure. And he was good at other things, too, once upon a time. He’d enjoyed the quiet life, before. He yearned for a quiet corner of the globe, allowed to just _be_ again. And if he _was_ so damned good, why couldn’t he escape their persistent offers? Why couldn’t he fade into the crowd again? Evaporate from one place and cease to be on their radar?

What was it that caused his veil of invisibility to slip every few months – and then, like clockwork, that call to come in the wee hours of the morning. Two shrill tones and then a pause before ringing again? All for the standard exchange: The offer; his refusal.

Then comes the morning his curt reply catches in his throat. They don’t bother with hello this time, nor with an apology for ruining his attempt at tranquility.

“He’s alive, Jonathan.”

The simplest of phrases, but the ‘_no_’ he was summoning gets stuck in his chest. He blinks, and then blinks again, his breathing beginning to quicken. They know he’s still on the line. The empty air is cloying, a trap waiting to spring shut. They know they’ve got him. They’ve finally found the singular way to change his answer.

His heartbeat is thrumming within his head.

How?

But then – does the how truly matter?

“Richard Roper is alive and well.”

He grips the old plastic handset until he hears it creak in protest.

His answer comes out as a snarl. “Not for long.”


	21. blindsided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ more from bodyguard!Tom ]

**I**t was a hand-off like any other. Seeing her safely home after a long day of moving her from one place to the next, appointment to appointment, event to event. Uneventful, just the way everyone preferred. 

Transition points are the typical weak spots which was why he was the one walking her from the car to the door. Owain had already swept her place, granting them a thumbs up from his position at the edge of the building. 

All clear.

They walked together just as they always did, her in the lead with him just off her shoulder. Because she was who she was, and did what she wanted regardless of how many times they’d been over the reasons _not to_, she started to slow her pace as they approached the building. 

Delaying the hand-off, just to see how she could test him today. He emits a strained grunt that she shouldn’t have been able to hear over the bustle of the sidewalk, but that’s never stopped her before. He can tell by the way her expression changes that she’s heard him.

She turns, offering him that same half-smile she always does when she’s amused by him. It makes him drop his shoulders just a little, his own expression carefully changing but not quite far enough out of Neutral to be in danger of showing her how he really feels - delighted but somewhat afraid of how keyed to him she is. 

“You know –” 

Two words. That’s all she manages with her head tilted _just so,_ the wind brushing through her hair, fluttering their clothes. Her posture abruptly changes, alarm conveyed without a sound. It’s all the warning he gets, all the needs to know that he needs to react, and do it quickly. 

The kick to the back of his knee comes as he shoves her towards the door, Owain jumping into motion to receive her and sweep her to safety. Tom reaches behind him, knowing he’s going to the ground, grabbing a fistful of cloth and yanking, keen to take the attacker down with him. 

Conflicting pain blossoms - his knee already screaming - his shoulder now objecting to a hard introduction to the pavement. _WHUMP_ \- his breath leaves him as the weight of the scrambling, growling man lands a top him, slamming his upper body back into the pavement again. Adjusting his grip, he rolls, adrenaline sending an override to his brain to **ignore the pain**, his training to keep the threat engaged kicking in. 

Owain will be sweeping her further away from the action. Sol will be calling it in, and soon - hopefully - arriving along with building security to help gain control of the incident. 

Safe.

Safe.

So long as she’s safe. 


	22. alarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ follow up for the last installment of bodyguard!Tom ]

**A** hell of a gash – he was told – in his hairline just behind his right ear, more bruises on his body than he could count or see, a blown-out knee, and a concussion. The knee was a no brainer. He’d known that from the instant contact was made, though adrenaline had helped him bypass the worst of the pain for a little while. A small patch of hair gone and seven stitches to deal with the gash, and once they were sure of the severity of his concussion, the necessary pain meds to keep him floating. He wasn’t sure he necessarily _enjoyed_ the floating, but he was sure the moment the meds wore off he’d miss the feeling and beg for it once more.

It had been her asshole of an ex, a man he would have gladly worked over with only the slightest nod of approval from her, not that she ever would have given it. Once he’d gotten the man pinned and additional help had arrived recognition had pinged in his brain – right before the realization that he wouldn’t be standing up again of his own accord for a little while. 

The light of day would bring things into a harsher focus but for now all he had to worry about was Solomon and the duty nurses refusing to let him sleep.

“Ask them for jello, next time they come in.”

He gives Sol a delayed look of skepticism, “Jello?”

“Yea. I’m hungry.”

“Then _you_ ask for jello. Or—” He inhales, squinting one eye shut at his friend sitting there in the corner. They’d been talking about… something. Thirsty, he shifts to reach across to the side table to retrieve the dinky plastic cup filled with water. Someone had provided a straw. He doesn’t much like it stirring around, bobbing and weaving in the cup with every movement. Makes him dizzy.

Sol’s laugh draws his attention again, his friend leaning forward to brace on the arms of the chair before working his way out of it, “Alright. I get it. Hunt and forage for myself, then.”

There was something he was supposed to ask. Rather, something he _wanted_ to ask “I shoved her.” Trying to focus on the exact sequence of events makes his head throb a little more than it did a moment prior. He stops trying to grasp at fragments in his mind and settles into the pillow behind his back, “She’s ok. Right?”

Solomon shakes his head, forehead wrinkling as he turns back in the doorway, “She’s fine. Which you know, cause you asked me already.” His eyebrows arch as he trips his focus quickly around the room before homing in on Tom again, “Just worried, which you should know, too, cause you can’t afford this place any more than I can.”

Not knowing how many times he’d asked, or what else to say in response, Tom sighs, “She’s a good person.” It’s the drugs – making him all fuzzy and unfiltered. 

“Sure. Same as you. But we both know it’s a little more than that.”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, mumbling as he makes a face and drawing a chuckle from across the room. “Don’t know that at all.”

Solomon gives him a patiently pained look, “You’re high as a kite and in denial, too. Paddling down the river, pretending it’s a stream…. Find something good to watch while I’m gone…. And be nice to the nurses. They control your drugs.”

He looks at the remote with disgust, the flash of every scene change and commercial break making the space behind his eyes throb. He gives it a few minutes, maybe less, waiting to be sure Sol won’t stroll right back in before he turns the tv off.

He _wasn’t _in denial. He was… fighting. Fighting with denial. Engaged in a long and strenuous debate with denial.

It seems like he’s only just shut his eyes, only just drifted off, when someone’s back in his room, fingers on his pulse. Yes. Yes. He’s awake. He’s awake. He flutters his eyes open and then blinks them hard. There’s two of her sitting there for a moment before they meld back into one, two of her perched there on the edge of the bed with this knotted up expression of concern on her face.

He lifts his hand, catching her fingers before she can withdraw them, curious and happy all at once. She shouldn’t be here looking down at him with such worry in her eyes. Like the rest of the world she should be sleeping, not wide awake like the night staff refusing to let him get much, if any, shut eye.

Since he’s got one hand captive with no intention of letting go, she ends up using the other to assess him, her eyes following along as she traces each scrape, each forming bruise. He contemplates telling her about the stitches, but that would mean looking away from her. Besides, that wide-eyed look of alarm might appear again, and he’d like to avoid that for now. 

“Are you ok?”

“I’m,” she laughs, water welling up on her lower lashes before she blinks the tears away again, giving her head a quick shake, “_you’re_ in hospital with a concussion. Look at you!” Her eyes go wide and she turns a little, scooting further off the bed, “And your knee!”

It reminds him of something, vaguely. He can’t quite grasp it. Instead, he squeezes her hand, hoping that will be enough to calm her, to bring those sparkling eyes back to meet his again. “I’m sorry.”

Frown lines appear, disappearing just as quickly, “You’re sorry? Oh my God. You don’t have to protect me right now. Please,” her free hand moves to the side of his face, faltering as her fingers go into his hairline and draw a wince out of him, “please just –”

Those wide hazel eyes keep him captivated. Light green with little impossible flecks of darker green and copper and brown and blue. She’d been about to say something right before they’d flashed in warning, right before he’d seen stars and everything became a muddled mess. He gives her hand another squeeze as he prompts her, “You know. You said ‘_you know_’.”

“What?”

The machines in the room continue their steady hum, something closer to the bed emitting a tiny beep. Monitoring doses or heart rate or whatever else they were for. Someone had told him all that earlier. They’ll have to tell him all that again the next time they check on him, too.

Oh. Maybe that’s what that beeping was. The throbbing behind his eyes has started to subside, and his ribs, back, and knee… He smiles at her, aware of how lopsided it is but unable to figure out how to immediately remedy the problem, “You weren’t trying to tell me something?”

“I – I don’t.” She shakes her head, closing her eyes for a moment before offering a quiet smile in return. “I don’t remember? Something stupid. To tease you, probably.”

He smiles at that, hearing the honestly in it. She was always doing that. Teasing and testing, poking at her _Mr. Stoic_ to see if she could find the man hidden behind the walls. She just didn’t realize how paper thin those walls were, much like those walls between the rooms of the suites they were in during the conference. He’d heard every word of those horrible phone calls, that asshole ex of hers destroying her every night. Marveled at how she put herself together every morning, not showing any of the grief she felt when she stepped out to face the public.

When she squeezes his hand again, he flutters his eyes open, realizing he’d somehow drifted off. Some bodyguard he was. Unable to keep from drifting, keep from being pulled under.

“I’m going to–” She looks towards the doorway, offering something other than _him_ a tight smile. It isn’t one of those special ones she sometimes gives him. So – so maybe that’s ok. “I should probably go so you can rest. Sol will be back soon.”

Sol can stay good and gone, and so can all the nurses that won’t let him sleep. He maintains his hold on her hand, the only thing currently keeping her close to him. It’s like she doesn’t want to twist her fingers away from his. He hopes.

A man can always hope.

“I love you, you know.”

She blinks at him, her mouth dropping open for a second before she shuts it again. One of those secret little smiles he sometimes catches appears for a fraction of a moment before a wider, laughing smile graces her lips. She shakes her head, something glittering at the corners of her eyes, but then she leans too close to him for him to be able to follow. Surprisingly, his body doesn’t complain about the weight of hers shifting onto his. Her lips brush the corner of his mouth, applying a gentle kiss before she lifts herself, moving back to the spot where she’d been sitting moments before, “That’s the medicine talking. But - maybe tell me again when you can remember you’ve said it?”


	23. steady

**T**he attempt to let things cool off between the pair of you by wandering away from the group to secure another drink proves…. ineffective. Too much sugar, too much drink, had already quieted the voice of wisdom to less than a whisper, and amplified the lustful pleading you’re all but certain the entire group can hear keening inside of you. Maybe if you returned his jacket rather than continue to have the spicy scent of him encompassing you…. 

The group parts when you return, your water half gone already for your desperate attempt to flush the lascivious thoughts from your system, your heartbeat ratcheting up again as you step into the space provided beside him. 

_No_, says your head. _Careful_, says your heart. _Yes please, _says the pulsing heat between your legs. 

It was the way he’d licked his lips as he’d stepped away from you after helping you into his leather jacket, his glance falling away from your face to not-so-subtly dive down your body towards the floor. It’s the way he can’t stand still next to you, hands shoving deep in his pockets before flying free again, loose to tell a story or just sweep through his slightly curling hair. It was the way he’d momentarily leaned into your ‘accidental’ contact made as you shifted beside him, the way he keeps checking your proximity, adjusting his own stance to meet yours. 

The smarter thing would have been to say your goodbyes hours ago, retreat to the safety of your place alone. Yes, the smarter thing. Instead you’ve delayed, remained, testing just how close you can toe the line before stepping over it. Delayed leaving to the point that leaving becomes an issue in itself. The way out has become a gridlock, bodies blocking every possible pathway and keeping the doors opened wide, a brisk flow of air tunneling in to chill the crowd. 

It means keeping his jacket a little longer. The evening air, snaking through the press of bodies, draws a different type of shudder from you as it sinks it’s teeth into your exposed flesh. You may be wearing his leather jacket but your dress leaves plenty more uncovered. 

_ooooh_ \- you mutter, taking a step back as you wiggle, trying to suppress the way your teeth want to rattle within your head. Layers would have been the better choice, but then you’d wanted to see if you could make his jaw work all evening, see if his eyes would linger. 

“Steady.” 

His quiet command sends another shiver through you, and you look back at him over your left shoulder, feeling the way he corrals you away from the strangers hemming the pair of you in with his outstretched arm. It draws you closer, that arm wrapping around your right side. The crook of his arm may hold his jacket closer but it’s all the contact he’s allowing - his hand remains relaxed, held loosely away from your body. 

Not for long. Not if you have anything to say about it. 

You tease your lower lip between your teeth, looking away from him to find his hand as you press yourself into his body. Not a mistaken nudge by the crowd. Not a shiver, not a shove; a deliberate step. He inhales against you, adjusting his stance - and as much as you’d like you see his face right now you keep your focus down, watching his hand as you guide it down to make contact with your hip, the way his fingertips flex slightly into the soft material of your dress. 

_Careful_, whispers your head. _Is this wise?_, asks your heart. _Fuck yes_, moans the rest. 

He tucks his head down to put his mouth closer to your ear, his words rasping in his throat as he clenches his jaw, “You’re killing me.” 

His fingers dig deeper, tracing inward as you shift your weight, grinding your hips into his. It’s maddening to watch, and edges you further towards recklessness. You loose a giggle, tipping your head to smirk sideways at him, “You can’t die yet. I’m just getting started.” 

“If we weren’t stuck here I’d…” He adjusts his hips, making it all too clear what the end of that sentence would be. When you arch into him in response he breathes out through clenched teeth, a soundless word leaving his mouth before his lips spread into a devilish smile. “If you don’t quit that we’re going to be arrested for public indecency.” 

You give him a small nod, feeling his hand reluctantly slide from your hip as you reestablish a bit of space between the pair of you. But it’s impossible to simply stand there with your body screaming for his, consequences be damned. Following the movement of his hand you turn to halfway face him, feeling the slow movement of the crowd shambling towards the exit doors. 

His eyes have dropped down to your waist and you watch as he lifts his hand to rub at the stubble around his mouth and chin. Swallowing, shakes his head, eyes flicking back up to meet yours before he drops his hand away from his face, “Nope. New plan. Find a side door and call the car to meet us up the street.” 

“Up the street?” 

His hand finds yours and then he’s pardoning himself through the crowd, pulling you along behind him. There’s still a wait at the next exit the pair of you find, but not nearly as congested. He traces circles on your palm with his thumb, flashing you hungry smiles as he leads out onto the street. 

Free of the building he turns, releasing your hand to be able to snag you by the pockets of his jacket, guiding you back against the building and slipping his hands beneath the leather material to meander over your torso. His lips find yours as his hands drift, tracing down your sides to pull your hips against his again. He murmurs as he breaks away, breathing hard against you, his body giving a little jerk with the emphasis he puts on the words, “Fuck. The car…” 

“It does help to let them know where to find us, doesn’t it.” 

Chuckling, he nods, nipping another light kiss on your lips as he seeks out his phone. He steps away to initiate the call, giving off a full body shudder as he shifts from one foot to the other. He glances up and down the street as the line is picked up, scowling at the news of where the car currently is, and then tipping his attention to you before relaying a set of instructions.

Skip free of the traffic, the madness at the front of the building. There’s a quieter street a few blocks away. 

You study him, drifting towards him as he ends the call. “That doesn’t take that long to walk…” 

“I know,” he pauses to slip his phone into the pocket of his jacket, before slipping his hand beneath it to find the edge of your hip again. His hand scoops around, tracing lower as he pulls you closer, “I’ve got other things planned while we wait.” 


	24. ransom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After watching Knives Out I realized I had another character worming his way under my skin. Here's a little something featuring Ransom Drysdale.

_‘Don’t fall in love with me_.’ 

It was a joked warning, so you thought at the time. He’d been laughing as he said it, the mood between the pair of you light and teasing as it always was when playing **GO** \- a favorite game.

‘_You’ll want to. But don’t.’_

‘_Not overly full of yourself at all, are you?’ _

You called his bluff but you could already feel the early traces of an attachment forming. A purely platonic love - you’d lied to yourself - the love between friends, between two people that knew the worst of one another and could see around it, through it. He was occasionally a first-rate asshole and you were sometimes a grade-A bitch. For whatever reason it worked as a friendship. 

‘_It’s a well documented pattern. Just trust me. Keep your guard up.’_

‘_My guard’s always up.’_

_‘Good. We won’t have any problems, then.’  
_

_‘None at all.’  
_

He played the game like he drove, like he lived his life; fast but with purpose. Always demanded to play the black stones. Always gloated when he won. He hadn’t won that day. Ever the sore loser, he’d fallen sullen when you bested him, glaring between you and the board to try to figure out how it’d happened.

You’d simply smiled at him in return: 

‘_Care to go again?’_

_‘One day I”ll figure you out. Your strategy-’ _he’d said as he leaned back in his chair, ‘_and then it’ll be over.’_

That was his tell, the signal he was done with your company for the day. When he tipped his head back, started looking down his nose at you, that’s when it was time to part ways. 


	25. Boston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another Chris Evans something

Because it amuses me greatly to consider someone meeting CE and not recognizing him

**I**magine your friends are getting married. The big day is imminent and its all hands to get everything accomplished before wedding bells will ring. Her sister and his brother claimed the coveted titles of Maid of Honor & Best Man, respectively, but also have been on airport duty as the final countdown begins and relatives from all over arrive. As such you’re doing all you can to help them out – and help to relieve some of the stress load – by running as many of the errands as you can. Without a car it’s slightly tricky (you live and work close enough that public transport makes more sense to avoid the additional hassle of payments associated with a vehicle). You’re doing all you can via taxi, train, or ride sharing services.

With the MOH on relative retrieval, you’ve also volunteered to be the point of contact should anybody in the wedding party have any questions. Directions, with a little over two years in Boston under your belt you’re _pretty _confident you can get them from point A to point B – and dining recommendations, which you’re _certain_ you can help with – are easy enough to handle as you’re tracking down altered dresses, picking up floral arrangements, and the like.

_\+ Status? +_

You eye the text from the bride, your friend Amy, and respond back:  
_~ Great! Going down the list. ♫ checking it twice ♫ ~_  
  
Her reply comes quickly:  
_\+ Honey you’re not Santa +_

It makes you grin, tapping out a follow-up:  
_~ No I’m more important ~_

At least, you _felt _important, earlier. But after an hour of juggling the bags hanging off of you, you have to wonder just what you were thinking when you volunteered to be one of the runners when you knew perfectly well you didn’t have a car. Maybe a rental _wasn’t _out of the question. Your aching arms certainly would appreciate not having the handles of assorted bags cutting into your skin.

It’s as you’re picking up the groomsmen’s tuxes that you get another text from Amy, letting you know that her soon-to-be-husband’s best friend miraculously was able to make it back to town for the wedding and since he rented a car he’s been nominated to help you return to Command Central faster.

_\+ actually he volunteered, because he’s a good man. SHOULD have been the Best Man but he was worried he wouldn’t make it back and … that’s another story. but this way you guys can get back here faster and hang with us at the house for a while! +_

When an unfamiliar number pops up on your screen a few minutes later you glance at the incoming message, apparently from the guy sent to help you out – a photo of the street corner, accompanied by one word of text: _hey_.

**HEY.** Cause that’s _super _helpful. Plus – you squint at the screen of your phone – is that street corner even close? It’s maybe… ok, maybe three blocks away. You swipe over to send him your exact location and then return to the task of collecting the tuxes. When the chime to the shop sounds you don’t even pause to check if it could be your ‘helper’ arriving, you just finish signing the slip and start to situate the garment bags in your arms.

A quiet commotion drags your attention away from the problem of how, exactly, to pick up the bags you’d set on the floor at your feet now that you’ve got the garment bags to contend with. A guy is standing in the doorway – a looker, not to put too fine a point on it – and is making a show of looking around as he plucks his sunglasses off his face and hooks them on the collar of his slightly-too-tight-but-perfect-for-showing-off-his-muscle-definition shirt. The commotion is the group of guys closer to the door than you that are clearly cheering the late arrival of the last member of their pack.

.

He takes in the store and all the racks of formal wear, only giving the group a small wave before continuing his perusal of the space. His gaze slips over you and then slides back for a brief appraisal before moving on again, giving you ample time for your own meandering appreciation of him.

Then his focus returns to you and he tips his chin up in greeting. _Not_ the final member of the rowdy pack of groomsmen also in the shop, then. This must be the guy, the best friend of the groom, here to help. You were the one holding all the bags. Clearly you’re the one he’s been sent to find.

“Sorry.” He grins through his apology, the humor in his face slightly catching, “Took a minute to find a place to park.”

He masks it well, but you hear the slightest inflection that identifies him as a native Bostonian. It may be subdued, but you suspect it grows stronger when he’s home again. The too-good-looking-for-words man is here to help you. With things. So many things other than the errands that you’re meant to be running.

“Hey,” he performs a quick double-step to close the final distance between the pair of you, reaching out as he does so. “I’m Chris…” 

You’re still caught in the loop of assessing him. Maybe he’s not too-good-looking-for-words? He’s got a little more scruff that you usually like, for starters. His hair a little long, his beard a little wild. There’s still this air to him of ‘I know I can get away with flirting with anything that moves’ despite it all. Is it the shirt, and the muscles that are clearly for the benefit of others? Or maybe the way his pants perfectly outline his –

“Packages! Here you go.” You shake yourself, forcing your eyes up as you shove the garment bags into his hands, “Thank you. So much. For helping out.”

“My. Pleasure?”

You ignore the odd expression on his face, ducking back down to pick up the other bags by your feet. Those few bags scooped up you start towards the door, “I’ve gotten the placards and programs that Amy had them run off for late RSVPs, and the um…”

He’s quick, somehow beating you to the door even though you’re pretty sure you left him in your wake, that you left him standing beside the racks of pants in your haste to get your brain on a safer track. Since Chris sent you the photo of the street corner, presumably close to where he parked, you know which direction to turn once the pair of you are out on the sidewalk. Chris has the garment bags containing the altered tuxes for the groomsmen slung over his shoulder. Crowded as it is, he draws close, almost bounding along beside you, “So, what’s left on our list?”

That’s a safe enough topic. You consider all that you’ve accomplished before his arrival, glancing down at the bags in your hands, “Well, um…. Oop!” The pair of you have to part to battle your way through a larger group of people walking in the opposite direction. The flow of foot traffic keeps you divided on opposite sides of the sidewalk for the length of the block.

When you stop at the corner, waiting for the light to change, Chris shimmies through the crowd to get to your side again and finally hear your response to his question. He’s grinning when he makes it to you, the pair of you following the signal and stepping off the sidewalk to cross the street, “Ok. Let’s try that again. Where are we headed next?”

“Your car, for starters.” You laugh, lifting the bags that are weighing your arms down. “We need to go by and confirm the changes to the planned meal for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow with the caterers, make sure they have an up-to-date head count as well, and then pick up the bouquets and boutonnieres for the wedding party. The florist said they’d deliver the centerpieces for the tables and her bouquet the morning of the big day.”

You start to slow down, wondering if he parked on this side of the intersection or the other. Are the pair of you approaching his rental? Do you still have another block to go?

Chris tips his head slightly to the side, “Isn’t that cutting it a bit close?”

“They offered to deliver them to the hotel tomorrow with the instruction to keep them in the fridge but…” You shrug at him, taking the opportunity to re-situate how many bags you’re holding in each hand. The paper used for the programs and placards was gorgeous, yes, but _heavy_ too. “But Amy said she didn’t want to chance them looking wilted… Although they’ll probably make them up tomorrow and store ‘em in their shop, honestly. Same difference.”

“Just don’t point out that detail to Amy?”

You smirk at him and the accuracy of that thought. “Exactly.”

Before you have the chance to fidget and adjust the bags again, he holds out his hand, “Here. Hand some over. We’ve got another half a block to go.” The fact that you get a reprieve from two of the bags barely keeps you from suppressing a groan. He eyes the bags you still carry, then takes stock of all he’s got, “We… should be able to fit it all in the back. ‘N’ hang-up the suits, of course.”

His hesitation gives you pause, “Of course.” You wait, taking a few steps before asking a follow-up question, wanting to know what type of vehicle to be on the lookout for, “What did you rent, anyway?” You half expect him to tell you he got the biggest SUV on the lot. Maybe a truck. If you’re getting an accurate read on him that would certainly fit his personality type.

But then why would he be worrying over fitting everything in the vehicle?

“A Mustang.”

You check just to see if he’s messing with you, but he appears to be entirely serious. But then, how would he have known that he would be roped into running wedding errands? His plan was probably just to come and celebrate with Amy and Connor.

When he veers off down a side street you follow suit, only to have him stop abruptly beside a white two-door coup. _Now _you understand his concern. You’re tempted to dig your phone out and text Amy one word:  
  
**_SERIOUSLY?!_**

But that would require an extra set of hands. As it stands the text to your friend will have to wait, at least until Chris gets the car unlocked and you offload the bags into the trunk. He pauses to tap at the handle of the passenger’s side door, unlocking the vehicle, before stepping around to the rear of the car to access the trunk.

.

“I suppose I should be thankful it’s not a convertible.”

Your muttered comment wasn’t exactly meant to be aloud, but it draws a laugh out of him. “They didn’t have any on the lot. But they’re supposed to have decent trunk space in those, too.”

You follow him around to the back of the car rather than muddle around, trying to figure out how to get into the passenger’s seat without dropping or squishing any of the bags.

Best. Decision. Ever.

This way you are graced with a fantastic scene playing out: Chris pauses at the trunk, wiggles slightly, and then pops one leg up so that he can balance one of the heavier bags on his thigh. He bends quickly to use the hand he just freed up to pop the trunk open, hardly wobbling as he does so. You quirk your eyebrows up in surprise, and in appreciation of the way his khakis are molded to his leg, which is exactly when he realizes that you’ve followed him.

He may be wearing his sunglasses again, but the sun makes the darkened lenses all-but-translucent. You get a clear display of how delighted he is that he caught you staring.

Oh hell. Did you say best decision ever? Scratch that. Make that worst. Worst decision ever.

“Good balance. Ah… Sorry. Um. Here.” Apologetic, you shove the bags into his hands as he turns towards you. You need a distraction, “Amy says you’re Connor’s best friend? How did you guys meet?”

He offers a stifled shrug, his arms loaded down with the bags you’d just fostered off on him, replying as he turns to reposition everything in the trunk. “We go way back. Grade-school, probably. Probably recess? Out being — ” he ducks up from putzing with things in the trunk, following your progress as you dismount the curb and slide into the passenger’s seat of the car. He half-frowns as he bends and rearranges the way the garment bag sits overtop of all the others, deep in thought, “ — the little terrors that we were, and like, just gravitated to one another I think.”

“Mm. Combine and amplify the mayhem?”

“Something like that.”

You check which of the two locations is closer, caterer or florist, and then swipe the app aside to tap out a quick message to Amy:

  
  
_~ Tuxes & programs retrieved. Yes I checked for spelling errors ~_

_\+ K. What do you think?? +_

_~ You found the right seamstress, definitely. ~  
~ & even considering the rush job they did a great job with the printing etc ~_

_\+ Of HIM you dunce +_

_~ I hate you & myself for being slightly attracted to that hot mess of a man ~_

_\+ lol +_   
  
  


You drop your phone into your lap when Chris settles in beside you and starts the car, his eyes dipping to the device before he cocks an eyebrow at you, “More errands added to the list or status check?”

“Status check. Florist first, or caterer?”

“You’ve got the list, wedding buddy. You point the way.”

The pair of you stare at each other for a moment before you narrow your eyes at him, “We’re going to sit here until I tell you which one first, aren’t we.”

“Glad you’ve accepted that.”

You roll your eyes and point as you sigh out the answer he’s looking for, “Caterer. Give me a minute and I’ll pull up the directions.”

He waits for your navigation app to start reciting directions, not pulling out into traffic just yet. While he idles the car, waiting on you, he asks, “What about you?”

“What about me, what?”

“Classic wedding question. C’mon.” In your peripheral vision you see him motion to himself before waving his hand towards you, “Friend of the groom….”

You answer as your phone finally pulls up the directions, “Friend of the bride, I suppose. Though I met them both at the same time.” The memory stirs: the bar, the drinking, the eventual horrible, horrible singing — “Karaoke night.”

“_Oh._”

He sounds far too intrigued. You regret revealing that detail immediately.

“No. Whatever you’re thinking. No. Get it right outta your head.”

He glances aside quickly before focusing on the traffic again, his look almost angelic. Almost. “What?” He laughs, “That was a noise of acknowledgement.”

“Right. And I’m a duck.”

He takes his time giving you another once-over, just like he had upon walking into the tailor’s, the traffic allowing him ample opportunity. “A duck, huh.” He waits till his eyes hit your face again before continuing, his humor at your choice of words evident, “I must be ‘_quakers_’ to think you’re cute, then.”

The giggle bubbles up from within you, immediately followed by a groan. “Wow, Chris.”

“I know.” He flattens his hand out over the top of the steering wheel, pointing his fingers momentarily towards the road before resuming his grip, “I know. That was a bad one.”

“So very bad. A little funny.” You offer him a caveat as a saving grace, “But _so _bad.” Another giggle escapes, and you wipe a tear from the corner of your eye, noting that his cheeks and a growing portion of his face have tinted pink. “Erm, so what do you do when you’re not shepherding carless damsels around the city?”

He swallows, seemingly grateful for the redirect when he glances away from the road to look at you for a moment. He tips his eyebrows up, though he doesn’t reply until his attention is back on navigating through the traffic, “Most recently – I was pretending to spearfish.”

It draws another laugh out of you, “Spearfish?”

“Yea,” he halfway mimes as he speaks, one hand always on the wheel, “you use a harpoon type thing and –” he pauses when he risks another glance your way to find you giving him a quizzical look. “—I wasn’t very good.”

“Ah… huh.” You continue to squint at him, unsure if the reassurance that he wasn’t very good with the harpoon-type-thing is supposed to instill confidence, or if he’s just flat out avoiding giving you a straight answer.

“What?” he chuckles.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re having me on again.”

“No.” He shakes his head, adopting a faux solemn manner, “Scout’s Honor.”

Again he’s got you rolling your eyes and shaking your head. You respond lightly, waving your hand at him, “Ok. Pretending to spearfish. You could just _say _that it’s something boring, like banking. Don’t have to make something up.”

“I dunno.” He hems, “Not sure I’d buy it if I told me I was a banker.”

“But spearfishing, clearly. Definitely buy that.”

He snorts, and then straightens up in the drivers seat slightly. “Oh! I actually know a few banking jokes.”

“Ok. Hit me.”

He closes his right hand into a fist and presses the knuckle of his index finger to his mouth, exaggerating the clearing of his throat before beginning, “What do you call the new girl at the bank?” He barely waits a beat and then delivers the punchline, darting his focus over to check your reaction, “The Nutella.”

Again, there’s that inflection to his words reminding you that he grew up here. Does it get more pronounced if he’s hamming it up, or the longer he spends back in Boston? Shoving the questions to the back of your mind again you raise your eyebrows at him, “Way to sell that one. Didn’t even let me guess.”

“_Every_body’s a critic. Tell me a joke, then,” he laughs, “with _proper _timing.”

You press your fingers to your forehead, thinking. “Ok. Um… What do you call a gossiping bank employee?”

Chris tilts his head, a light frown appearing on his face. “Er….”

Ultimately, he shrugs in response to prompt you to continue and you giggle, “A story-teller.”

The pair of you spend the next twenty minutes of the drive trying to out-do (or out-groan) one another with bad banking jokes, and horrible puns. As you start to run out of puns you fall back on pick-up lines and one-liners. The result is that the pair of you end up falling away from the innocent, horrible jokes into the realm of the raunchy, loving every minute of it. 

“Ok, ok.” He ends up conceding, “I’m calling it, unless you want to switch to another profession. I’m pretty tapped out on bank jokes.” He side-eyes you, “Though something tells me you have a few more.”

“Maybe.” It’s entirely too fun making him laugh, or squirm, or tip his eyebrows up in surprise. His beard and longer, wind mussed hair, don’t hide half as much of his expression as you initially thought. Very emotive, this one. You now have a few more goals added to your mental list for the remainder of the weekend: tease him mercilessly and make him laugh as much as possible. You offer a half-shrug, “I’ll happily be declared the winner.”

“Oh… It was _a competition_.”

There’s something delightfully dangerous in his tone.

“Of course,” you nod, “And to the victor go the spoils.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thrumming his fingers on the gear shift as he waits to merge into the other lane. Traffic makes the move difficult, that and the fact that he’s refusing to use his blinker. He only manages to get halfway into the lane before speaking again. “Dinner?”

What? You blink, cocking an eyebrow at him, “What?”

“Or drinks.” He shakes his head, scowling at the car that seems to be getting a little too close to the rental, before screwing up his face again and giving you a toothy grin, “I know. Shots when we all go out tonight. On me. And I’ll drink two to every one of yours.”

“Is this you trying to get blitzed, or thinking you need to sweeten the pot?”

“Which one of those gets you to say yes?”

It’s so tempting to immediately say yes – but then it’s also tempting to see if he’ll keep upping the ante… There’s also the question of the wisdom of saying yes to him, of continuing to flirt with this all-but-stranger your friends sent to help speed along the errands you were running for them. The moment for wondering if it was wise or not passed you by long ago.

“You know,” you hem, stalling answering him outright, “you could _severely_ be underestimating my tolerance levels.”

“Or maybe _you’re _underestimating _mine_. I’ll have you know I’m the drinking game _champion_.”

“Now that? That I believe.” You’re really just giving him a hard time. It’s not that anything he’s said to you has the air of a lie to it – things outside the realm of normality, the realm of possibility, but no outright lies.

Your words net you a sharp look from him, one eyebrow cocked. “Back to that, huh. Scout’s honor,” he repeats, “Spearfishing. Anyway, what do _you_ do?”

“When I’m not rescuing carless damsels, you mean?”

He snorts, failing to keep from loosing a chuckle. “You too, huh?”

Making him laugh is quickly becoming a favorite thing. It’ll be even better when you don’t have to worry so much about distracting the person driving the vehicle. You emit a long faux-put-upon sigh, “Full time job, some days.”

Your quip is rewarded with a devilish, and delicious, grin. His voice drops slightly as he glances over at the next red light, clearly curious. “Seriously, though.”

“Hmm, so Amy and Connor nominated you for driving duty – ”

“Assigned a wedding buddy.” He corrects, following the directions of the navigation, turning before pulling up to the curb for the caterer’s building.

“And didn’t give you _any _details?” You wait till he shakes his head, putting the car into park. It’s perfect. You unbuckle your seat belt and wink at him over your shoulder before opening your car door, “I’m in banking.”

He doesn’t seem quite sure if he should laugh or not. He sputters, flushing scarlet as he tries to figure out how to respond. “You- you’re… but you said?? We just spent the better part of the ride making fun of…”

You talk over the rest of his sentence. Suppressing a giggle, you wiggle your fingers at him and half-sing, “♫ I’ll be back in a minute. ♫”

The moment you’ve turned your back, walking up to the door of the caterer’s building, you’re texting Amy. You were doing _just fine_ running errands on your own before being assigned a wedding buddy. Wedding buddy! Look. He’s already got you agreeing with the notion. Now there’s flirting and laughter and… _Someone_ must pay for this.


	26. sweater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from Ransom Drysdale & the Thrombey family

**Y**ou can probably count on one hand how many family functions Ransom has dragged you to — for the fun of it, which in Ransom means for his own amusement — that haven’t ended in an argument in one form or another. It was usually Harlan, Ransom’s grandfather, and Ransom providing the cringe-worthy end-of-the-evening entertainment.

Not today. Today the family patriarch sits at the head of the table giving the rest of the room a critical stare. And Ransom? Your friend seems content, for the moment, to let the drama play out between Walt and Joni. Whatever had set the pair of them at each other’s throats has worked into a fever pitch of drama usually reserved for the blowouts between your friend and his grandfather.

The rest of the conveined family seems just as content to let Joni and Walt snipe at one another, not yet to the point they’re willing to be swept into the disagreement. Time’s all that’s needed for that to change. Linda or Donna or Richard will weigh in and the argument will spread as it always does, engulfing the table before the night is through.

Following along or picking up the progress of the argument is impossible for the other conversations being held. It’s always been this way. If you want to have any sort of hope at conversation you had to borderline shout, at least until the inevitable storm out occurred. It’s quite possible that a sudden quiet follows, or maybe it hardly gives anyone pause. You were usually part of the quick exit — having learned that if you didn’t leave when Ransom jettisoned himself from their company it was a good long wait for a ride share or taxi.

Linda and Richard were never much help, to you or Ransom. They put up with your random appearances just about as well as they did their son’s — all parties agreeing to get along to a certain degree and agreeing to ignore each other all the rest. It’s Harlan that spoke the mostly highly of Ransom, supporting whatever whim’d captured his grandson’s fancy. That, and a love of the elder man’s exccentricies, keeps you saying yes every time Ransom mentions a visit to the Thrombey house.

You risk a glance across the table and frown. Ransom has settled askance in his chair, tipped with his shoulder turned away from his grandfather, turned towards the rest of the room. It’s the look in his eye that has you worried, one that spells trouble as he studies the battle taking place between his aunt and uncle. He’s watching the shouting match with a distinct glee, eyes flicking back and forth almost as though he already knows the pacing of the fury filled dance.

It’s an expression not dissimilar to the one currently worn by Harlan, though you know Harlan’s interest in the matter has different roots. The elder man has produced his little notebook and pen from somewhere on his person and is jotting down occasional notes — ever seeking plot points for future stories. No help from Harlan, then.

You catch Ransom’s eye, careful with the look you give him. If he notes your distinct desire that he _not_ interject himself it will all but ensure that he does it. In response he darts his eyebrows up for a fraction of a second, the edge of his mouth curling into a smirk.

_Shit_.

Bringing your wine glass to your lips you swallow down a little more of the liquid that has likely been staining your lips and tongue a darker color. Silently you half-will Ransom to just eat his damn custard and stay out of the debate that his father has started weighing in on.

It was like broadcasting a green light. Ransom’s smile grows, and he issues a small nod to nobody in particular before he sweeps himself up out of his chair.

_Fuck_.

If you watch his progress through the room it’s only going to egg him on. You force your attention down to the last brownie on the platter, wondering if you can shove it in your mouth and make a hasty exit before the whole room is engaged in a passionate, but pointless, argument.

Harlan starts to hum a tune you can almost place just before you hear Walt snap, “Nobody asked your opinion, you little shit.”

In that little war that Ransom keeps waging against his family he’s likely granted himself another point for such an immediate, viciously delivered, response.

You roll your eyes and finish your wine, leaning to tap the table near Harlan’s notebook as you excuse yourself, “Thank you for another _lovely_ evening.”

Harlan offers you a tight smile, his eyes sparkling as he darts his attention from the spectacle that is his family to look at you. “My pleasure, my dear. It was good to see you.”

You don’t bother to check if Ransom has even turned to clock your departure. He’ll seek you out when he runs out of steam. Escaping from the abrasive behavior is your immediate goal, maybe finding the buzz that should have accompanied the wine you’ve consumed over the course of the evening. It’s a nice enough night, if a little chilly. Perfect for sitting on the porch while you wait for your ride — either the same way you arrived, with Ransom in his BMW, or someone you end up calling.

No need to bother with seeking anyone out to reclaim your coat and gloves, you know where they’ve been stashed…. never mind the fact that most of the staff scattered when the shouting picked up in decibel. The _real_ battle is untangling your things from Ransom’s in the coat closet, that godawfully flamboyant scarf of his that makes Joni wince every time she sees it always tangling with everything else in close proximity.

“Half the fun is watching you try not to react.”

You fall still, two seconds away from simply using force to rip the buttons of your coat free of Ransom’s scarf. Glaring at him, you shake the garments once more for good — though ultimately ineffective — measure, “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yea, well—” He plucks your jacket and his scarf from your hands and gives them a little yank to separate them, a sharp ripping sound resulting from the motion. “Takes one to know one.”

At least your jacket is free? You start to reach out for it but something in his expression makes you pause and lick your lips. He’s still riled for an argument. The fact that he’s done almost all he can to annoy the snot out of his family tonight doesn’t matter, it clearly hasn’t fully satisfied that urge of his.

You’re used to being the one he argues with, lucky you, when his family isn’t around. That’s not what momentarily freezes you. You can argue with him all day and it not matter in the slightest… it’s the _way_ he’s looking at you that’s different. Something you haven’t seen from him in awhile. Not down his nose - dismissive. Not with his chin tucked slightly, those blue eyes only showing a sliver through narrowed slats - mistrustful. Not even a wide eyed glare…

Not here. That can’t happen here.

You reroute your hand to brush your fingers over the obnoxious print of his scarf, the material now torn. “Oh, good job.” You reach out to pinch at one of the tears in his cable knit sweater, indicating one of the holes he hasn’t cared enough to have repaired. “But you do match a little better, now.”

His eyes flare wider for a moment before he takes a step towards you, quickly winding his scarf around your outstretched hand to keep you from being able to pull away from him.

_Shit_.

“That’s funny.” He tips his head ever so slightly to the side, all the while maintaining that heated _hungry_ eye contact. “If memory serves, and trust me I remember _everything_, didn’t you cause this one?” He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as he reaches up to finger the triangled hole in the hem of his collar, waiting for you to answer with a predatory smile on his lips.

Technically the answer is yes. Technically. You tip your eyebrows up at him, using your free hand to find a few of the other snags in his sweater. “_You_ gave me that necklace.”

Pointing out those other frayed points was clearly exactly what he wanted you to do. He grins as he wraps the remainder of his scarf around your other wrist. You mutter a light curse, rolling your eyes at his growing smile, “_Fuck_.”

He settles your hands between the pair of you, letting you get a light grip on the front of his sweater before he takes the first step to push the pair of you backward, aiming to squeeze the both of you into the little bit of space left in the coat closet. The family shouting match is still going strong and echoing through the house when he dips his head, one word leaving his lips before his mouth covers yours: “Exactly.”


	27. murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more featuring Ransom Drysdale, picking up right where we left off in 'sweater'

**E**very action from Ransom while he’s near his family is always undertaken to twist their opinions of him a little further. The fact that you’d forced him to disengage from the argument that had started out between his aunt and uncle only fueled the heat currently passing between the pair of you. Each thrust of his hips is driven by his need to thumb his nose at his family, aimed not for pleasure but maximum fallout. 

Except he’s got his hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds he’s forcing out of you, the cold metal of his pinky ring cutting into the skin of your upper lip. He’s keeping his own grunts half-contained, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his teeth grinding. 

He’s watching your face, clearly half-absent, his head cocked to listen through the closed closet door to the ruckus still going strong in the rest of the house. Linda’s voice can be distinguished above the rest now, the eldest of siblings weighing in on the raging debate to try to command control of the evening. The argument seems to have moved from the dining room out into the foyer, drawing closer to where the pair of you are hidden away. If Linda were to discover her son railing you in the coat closet it would reroute the mayhem enveloping the house in an entirely different direction. 

There’s Walt again - the tones of his exasperation clear even muffled through the door, and Joni’s nasal whine - ever petulant. Ransom nearly unsheaths himself before jerking his hips hard into yours again, his hand pressing more firmly over your mouth as you react to how deep he’d driven himself. You half consider shifting your mouth to bite him, just to see how he’d react. The roughness of his actions are probably also a test to watch and see if the barrier between you still holds. Love was out of bounds, feelings beyond a cooperative effort to drive his family up the wall. Your casual sexcapades have always been simply a convenience, a quick way to fueling his family’s opinions of his character.

After a minute the shouting starts to quiet - the argument slowly dissipating and moving from how it had spilled out into the foyer to another room, likely the front parlor. With nobody heading to the closet to discover his antics Ransom’s movements start to ease, another moment longer and he pulls himself away from you entirely with an unsatisfied grunt. 

Mark down two for that sentiment. Typical Ransom behavior - fucking you just hard and long enough to wind you up but not long enough to finish the job. You arch your eyebrow at him as he unwinds his scarf from around your wrists and uses it to wipe at his groin, clearly intent on thoroughly destroying yet another article of clothing. Rather than moving on to adjust his pants he shifts, dropping that gaudy-material-covered hand between your legs, his shoulders jumping as he chuckles when you squirm against his heavy-handed ‘cleanup’ between your thighs. 

“Stop it,” you shove his hand free of your body, settling him with an annoyed expression, “Save it for the next performance. It’s clearly going to be awhile before Walt goes out for his cigar.” 

Ransom grins, his humor returning, though constrained. Clearly he’s scratched the itch that had driven the pair of you into the closet in the first place. 

There’s nobody around to witness the pair of you reemerging from among the coats, though muted conversation can be heard echoing through the house. You catch a flash of blonde from the direction of the parlor - Donna - but otherwise reach the front door without further interaction with any of the Thrombey clan, Ransom close at your heels. 

The blast of cold air as you step onto the porch is refreshing, much needed after the cloistering heat there among the family’s winter wear. You’ve had better, but the night definitely could have been much worse. You’ve made it down the porch steps, the gravel drive crunching beneath your shoes, when you hear someone call Ransom’s name - his given name sounding slightly foreign to your ears.

“… Hugh?” 

You turn back first, watching Ransom roll his eyes before pausing on the steps to follow suit. Fran stands framed in the doorway, something held pinched carefully between her fingers. 

His scarf. 

Ransom barks out a sharp laugh, his torso tipping back ever so slightly in his display of delight. You wouldn’t put it past him to have done it on purpose, dropped it as the pair of you walked through the foyer just to see what someone would do upon its discovery. Shame it wasn’t his mother…

Fran steps out onto the welcome mat, crossing the porch to hold out the soiled and torn article of clothing to its rightful owner who hasn’t even lifted a hand to indicate he wants it back. 

_Poor Fran._ You trap the fleeting thought, pressing your mouth closed before you accidentally let anything slip… but not quick enough. Just there - there at the corner of Ransom’s gleeful smirk - you note the twitch of his lips. You roll your eyes at him and turn your back on the house, resuming walking towards his Beamer. 

Take it or leave it, you don’t care so long as he decides soon so the pair of you can start the drive back to the city. 

“Should I send it to be cleaned?” Fran’s figured out that he’ll just stand there, watching her hold out that godawful scarf, silently smirking at her. She lowers her arm again, holding the ruined fabric carefully away from her clothes. 

His stalling antics win him exactly what he was aiming for from the start, an audience. His father appears at the door, followed closely by his mother, and uncle. “Nah,” Ransom offers everyone a lazy wave of his hand as he turns to fully descend the porch stairs and start out onto the gravel drive, “It was destined for the trash anyway.” 

“Ransom!” Linda looks slightly stricken when she realizes what Fran has been holding. She calls out to her retreating son, “Really. Why can’t you take care of your things?” 

Ransom’s smile expands, locking eyes with you for a moment before he turns his head to shout back at the house. “I did, Mother. Up against your furs. That’s why she looks a little wobbly.”

You look up at the sky, plastering a pleasant smile onto your face. The handle of his BMV offering no safe haven from the ire launched at the pair of you from the vicinity of the porch. 

Ransom can’t resist leaving a potential moment for mayhem untouched. Ever. Every word hurled at him just seems to bounce off, brightening his mood with every failed attempt at a cutting comment.

His uncle’s cracked, pitchy protests - you’re not even sure that Walt is yelling about anything coherent, just yelling gibberish for the sake of it. 

His father’s gravelly, growled disapproval - typical Richard. If Ransom ever did anything that pleased his father it was drive another au pair away, requiring another be hired in her place. 

It’s his mother’s shouted threats of cleaning bills if she finds so much as a _single stain on her precious coats _that wins a parting wave from Ransom, unhurried as he rounds the front of the car towards the driver’s side door, “Eat shit, Mother!” 

You shake your head as you slide into the passenger’s seat, giving the family a tight smile as you pull the door shut - the action hardly blocking out their shouting at all, particularly for the way Ransom pauses to lean against the frame of the vehicle, driver’s side door open wide. 

It’s hard to say what feeds the reactions from the porch more, be it Ransom’s biting retort or simply the way he grins in response to their irritation. Everyone, save Fran, is shouting and tinging slightly pink in the face. Richard and Linda may be leading the furious tirades, but the former’s voice can be heard above the rest for having stepped down onto the stairs in front of the porch: “Crawl up your ass and sniff glue, you unappreciative little shit!” 

“What,” Ransom thrums his fingers on the hood of the Beamer, laughing back, “In that order?” 

He doesn’t wait for a reply from his father, just slides down into the driver’s seat, clearly pleased with the way the night is drawing to a close. Everyone is still shouting, their words lost to the pair of you for the insulation of the car’s revving engine. You watch in the rear-view mirror as Richard hurls his tumbler of whiskey, the arc of his throw pitiful, the glass shattering a few feet from the porch. 

You wait till the car’s tires hit paved road, unable to sit and listen to Ransom’s random chuckling any longer. “Why don’t you call them on any of their bullshit? Why let them believe the worst?” 

It’s not a subject frequently brought up - in fact you usually take pains to avoid any mention of it, not wanting to stir and prod his vicious streak. Maybe it’s because you’re frustrated. Maybe his family’s irritation with him was catching,_ is _catching, and has infected you. 

Ransom’s mood settles, his lips pressing flat as he stares at the road. Those blue eyes cut to you for a moment before he flicks his attention forward again, focused on the drive. There’s still a slight chuckle of amusement in his voice, but it’s fading fast, “Easier to let them think what they want.” His shoulders give a little jerk as he laughs, curious enough - or amused enough - to entertain this discussion of his life-view. “This way I get away with so much _more_. With murder.” 

“Jesus, Ransom.” You shake your head at him, “That’s no way to live.” 

“Says you. It’s fucking _freeing_. Get caught doing coke once and they don’t _blink_ at anything else.” The corner of his mouth pulls a little, and he arcs an eyebrow up at the road, his gaze sliding to you for a second. “You’re mad about the closet.” 

“Irritated.” You correct him with a hard glare, “Irritated that you once again let them believe something that isn’t true.” 

“Oh?” 

Your frustration is bubbling over. Calling him on his shit is one thing. Letting him know how much he’s riled you is another. “Yes! If you _really_ wanted to get caught in there? You wouldn’t have kept your_ hand_ over my _mouth_, Ransom. Never mind what you said to your mother.”

“Eat shit?” That grin is back. He’s enjoying this. 

“No.” You shake your head. _Fuck_ how you want to wipe that grin off his face. You’d just be playing into his hands. You reach around and unbuckle your seat belt. “Never mind. Just - just stop the car.” 

That gives him a second’s pause. 

“What?” 

“You heard me. Stop. The. Car.”

He starts to slow down, the car moving at something closer to the speed limit and not his usual break-neck pace. “What’re you gonna do? _Walk_ back?” 

You put your hand on the door handle, hooking your fingers under the lip of it. “Stop the car, Ransom, or I swear I’ll bail out.” 

“Your choice for the road rash….” His expression conveys confusion, maybe even a little doubt, but he knows you well enough to believe you for that tone you have in your voice and applies a little more pressure to the brakes.


	28. stubborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from the Ransom Drysdale story that now has a name: A Turn of the Knife

  


[ Ransom Drysdale has his own story now, surprise surprise: **A TURN OF THE KNIFE**. ]

**Y**ou thought he was going to leave as soon as you got out of the car. It was what he’d threatened to do - drive off and leave you to walk just as _you’d_ sworn you were going to do. He probably thought about it. Knowing him he’d sat there entertaining the idea of making the Beamer’s tires squeal, just for effect. 

Instead he sat there watching you get out of the car, slamming the door for good measure, with the oddest expression on his face. 

It was another test. It was just another way to try to call your bluff. 

You glare at him through the passenger’s side window of his white BMW before turning to start down the shoulder of the road, starting that long walk to home you have ahead of you. There’s enough light lift, and the occasional street lamp… you’ll be able to see yourself home alright. Who needs to ride around in a stupid little sports car, anyway? With your coat and gloves, hastily shoved on though they were, you won’t be feeling the cold anytime soon. 

Plus there’s your anger - _irritation, _whatever - over the way the night has ended. 

If _he’d_ just have gotten you off like he’d claimed to his mother - to half his family. If he’d stop always trying to live up to that horrible reputation that they’ve cultivated and shoved at him since infancy. 

Ok, yes, he’s _good_ at being exactly what they’ve always thought of him, and worse - but that didn’t mean… What _did _that mean? You glance back, over your shoulder to look through the windshield at the behind the wheel, and find Ransom pretty much wearing the same annoyed expression that you currently are. 

Then he lays on the horn, the sharp blast of sound making you jump. 

You flip him off and face forward again, glaring hard at the roadside stretching out before you, and your lengthening shadow. More distance. There needs to be more distance between you and that _asshole _behind the wheel of his precious Beamer. You fully expect to hear the rev of the engine and a flash of white passing you by, followed by tail lights quickly fading from view. 

Nothing happens. 

Exhaling a sharp breath you fold your arms across your chest, determined not to look back again. It’s probably what he’s waiting for. 

There. There’s the rev of the engine, and the slight swing of your shadow as he moves the car - finally - from the spot where he’d stopped and you’d gotten out. But the rest –

Ransom draws the vehicle up beside you, the engine calming to a purr, and leans to be able to talk to you through the few inch gap now showing above the passenger’s side window. _That’s_ what he’d been doing while you back was turned. 

“C’mon. Get back in the car.” 

You glance over at him, eyes sliding to note the loose way he’s gripping the steering wheel before snapping your attention back to his face. You shake your head in the negative, “Go away, Ransom.” 

“You’re being stupid. Get in.” 

Stupid? ‘_Stoopid, with two Os_’ - a favorite phrase of his passes through your head, netting him a hard glare before you moodily turn away and keep walking. He just creeps the car along beside you, probably alternating between watching the road and glaring at you in return. 

Cars occasionally whizz by, veering into the other lane to avoid him, but Ransom maintains the slow almost-idle roll alongside you. He doesn’t even bother continuing to issue demands. As much as he loves arguing he’s also the master of wielding weaponized silence. He’d out stubborn the sun so long as he thought there was something in it for him. 

Question is: what does he think the benefit is for waiting out your anger, ultimately driving you home? You puzzle that over while you walk, your anger ebbing towards annoyance as time passes, all the while Ransom’s Beamer inching along at your side. 

He fiddles with the radio, letting an evening telecaster squawk for a few seconds before scanning to a new station. A few seconds of airtime, just enough to possibly pick up on what song is playing, and then he changes the station again - either scanning for something specific or just trying to prove how little attention he’s paying to you. 

Or to the increasing traffic. 

He’s pulled similar stunts at public venues - the action less gentlemanly than most outsiders interpret it to be. It wasn’t that he was showing a preference for someone, companionship or kindness. He did it to peacock, to make his presence known, but also to cockblock you, too. 

Radio on. Radio off. Radio on. The steady roll of his tires in contrast to the other vehicles on the road roaring past. The occasional horn expressing the unhappiness of the other motorists regarding his antics. The routine doesn’t vary even as you get closer to the outskirts of the city. He keeps it up right up to the intersection leading into your neighborhood where you stop and stand, determined not to move another step towards home until he drives away. 

Ransom tips his hand away from the wheel, motioning in the direction of your house with a wave of his fingers, maintaining the silence between the pair of you while still conveying his intentions. He’ll see you to your door. You shake your head and flip him off in return, watching the muscles in his jaw clench and bunch as he rolls his eyes. He takes both hands off the wheel and gives his head an exasperated shake - _fine!_ \- before swerving out into traffic, finally doing what you’d asked from the start and venturing towards his house. 

About damn time. Now you can let your guard down a little, belatedly realizing that being on the defensive all night had worn you out more than you’d thought. Your house and bed are waiting, warm and inviting. A smile starts to press itself onto your lips as you think about the next sequence of events. You’ll change, leaving the shower for the morning, and satisfy yourself the way _he _refuses to, and then settle for a bit of well deserved rest. 

It’s not your fault that Ransom’s face is there, flashing into your mind as you orgasm - it’s _his_. He’s the one that had gotten you part of the way there earlier in the evening. It was his hand you felt over your mouth as he’d fucked you, and pressing between your legs to torment you during his heavy-handed ‘cleanup’. His fingers always knew exactly which buttons to push, and in what sequence, to have you wet and panting for him in a mere few moments. 

_Damn him_. 

You stretch out in the darkness, restless, doing your best to get Ransom out of your head. It’s the worst place he can be, in your head and under your skin. You flip onto your stomach, your sleep shirt bunching and twisting from the motion, the pair of boxers you’d thrown on hanging loose on your hips. Closing your eyes, you groan. 

This was why your sexploits with Ransom were a bad idea. It was hard to recover, particularly when he left you wanting. When you start to finally drift he’s there waiting for you, that same self-satisfied smirk tormenting you in your dreams. 

The quiet sound of movement pulls you from your delicious dreams, footsteps and the rustle of clothing along with breathing - your brain immediately identifying the sound coupled with the scent of his cologne: 

_Ransom_. 

Annoyed - turned on - tired - you can’t quite decide on the way you want to respond. You stretch and exhale as the bed shifts, the sheets pulling away from your body as his hands search to make contact. You’d swat at him but one arm is trapped beneath your pillow and the other is slightly numb for the way you were sleeping on it. “Go ‘way.” 

His skin is slightly chilled - the temperature must have dropped a little more since you last saw him - his mouth finding your shoulder and shifting up your neck. He inhales long and slow as he settles his body against yours, murmuring against your skin, “You smell delicious.” 

Goosebumps prickle across your arms as you shake the haze of your dreams from your mind. What you smell like? You smell like sweat, and perfume. You smell like the Thrombey house, and wine. You smell like sex and - your irritation spikes and you wiggle a little to try to get him to settle down. “New scent. Fucked and left to sleep it off.” 

His reply isn’t intelligible, his words suctioned into your skin. Ransom angles his hips, maneuvering his torso to push the sheet out of his way. It doesn’t take long for his hands to slide down your sides and start to shimmy the thin boxers down your hips. 

Where is this coming from? Your body is reacting of its own accord, already having experienced a fabulous fucking from him only moments before in your dreamworld. You groan at the betrayal of your body, hiding the half-smile trying to appear on your lips by burrowing your face a little more into your pillow. “Nggh. Go scratch that itch somewhere eeeelse.” 

This time his lips leave your skin, though his hands continue to burrow, wedging the thin material down your hips, “Hpmh. Maybe I will.” 

You wait a second before tipping your chin, lifting your head just enough to be able to look askance at him over your shoulder. He’s still wearing that damned sweater. Has he even gone home? And where is his jacket? “… you’re not getting up.” 

Ransom gives you an odd little shrug, unwilling to remove his hands from the outsides of your upper thighs. “You’re not putting much effort into kicking me out.” 

His fingers flex and you roll to trap one of those wandering hands between your body and the mattress. Won’t help by much, persuasive as he is with other parts of his body, but it’s a start. It’s a little annoying how willing your body is to bend the way he wants, shifting into different positions with barely a touch. “I’m tired.” 

He glances down, smiling at the way you’ve started to arch your back. Your hips seem more than willing to allow themselves to be pulled towards his. He’s almost entirely exposed your ass and probably wants to examine his handiwork.

“Huh. I – are… those my boxers?”

You snort, shifting and freeing his other hand from beneath your body as you roll further onto your side. Talking is - good. Talking is a distraction from what your body seems to be craving, the thing you shouldn’t encourage or risk making it a thousand times worse. 

“Dunno. Probably. Just pulled on the first thing I found in the drawer. You leave your shit everywhere.” You push behind you, your hand colliding with his stomach. There’s tension there, in his stomach and leading lower. You feel the jump of his muscles when he chuckles in response. 

Otherwise he doesn’t move. 

In the darkness you watch him over your shoulder, how he blinks and then swallows, his fingers seeming to _itch to touch,_ the pad of his thumb running over the first few knuckles of his digits. He slowly forces his gaze away from his pair of boxers that have settled well below your hips, a sharp smile appearing as his focus rises. Ransom ducks down to nip lightly at your neck before biting with a bit more force into the meat of your shoulder. 

“Nnngh.” The sound you make is the same as all the others you made in protest, but rooted in an entirely different region. 

Ransom loosens the pressure of his teeth, turning his head without letting his lips leave your skin, “Gonna tell me to get out again?” 

“Just to get out of your clothes.” 

You feel the vibrations of his amusement as he laughs, “You too.” But then he inhales sharply, “No. Actually. I’ll do that for you.” 

Have you accidentally discovered something else that turns Ransom on? Oh _no_ \- does that mean he’ll leave more of his dirty laundry laying around? Things to consider at another time. Right now you’d much rather focus on the man working his way through getting the both of you naked. 

There goes that well-worn cable knit sweater, yanked over his head and tossed to land you-don’t-know-where. He pulls his undershirt off and launches it behind him in a similar fashion before lowering back down from how he’d drawn up onto his knees, pausing to unbuckle and unzip his pants. He’ll deal with the rest when he wants to. You focus on moving along with his hands once he starts to shift your body, removing what little clothing you had to start with. 

Something else belatedly occurs to you as Ransom slides his long-forgotten-at-your-place piece of clothing down past your knees, one of his hands hooking beneath your leg, “How’d you get in? The door was locked.” 

Ransom pulls the leg he’d been manipulating free of that side of the boxers, abandoning that particular task with a humor tinged grunt as he answers, “What. Like it’s hard to get a key copied?” 

  



End file.
